Becoming Erik
by tragicbeauty1991
Summary: When Christine visits the opera house after the fire, a mysterious shape in the shadows is waiting for her. Realizing that the Phantom is still alive, she begins to question where her heart truly lies. Can she help him find the man behind the monster?
1. Death of an Angel

**Author's Note: Hi, everyone! Just a few quick things I'd like to get out of the way before we begin. First off, I'd like to say that this fic is based on the 2004 film version, so the Phantom is Gerard Butler's version. I understand why some people are not particularly fond of his portrayal of the character (he's not ugly enough), but I feel like Gerry's version is very human in his emotions. If you don't like this version of Phantom, please do not bash my story. Second, while I prefer Christine with Erik, I also find Raoul a likeable character, so I will not be doing any deliberate Raoul-bashing. Finally, as you all know, _The Phantom of the Opera_ belongs to Gaston Leroux, Andrew Lloyd Webber, and Joel Schumacher, NOT me. This is my first "phanfic," so I'm really excited to see what you guys think! Please R&R and enjoy! :)**

**~CaptainHooksGirl~**

**Chapter One: Death of an Angel**

Christine gazed out the window of the third-story guest bedroom at the de Changy mansion. It was late December, and the beautiful snow which had blanketed the ground the night before was slowly dissolving with every icy drop of rain that fell from the bleak gray sky. It wasn't quite cold enough to freeze yet, just cold enough to make a walk outside wet and miserable. It would likely freeze over in the night, making a journey into town nearly impossible. Christine sighed softly and watched as the Parisian winter wonderland before her melted into a heap of mush, the frigid drops of water sliding down the window pane like tears, as if the sky itself was mourning its destruction of such beauty. She lifted a hand to her face, which was suddenly wet, and was surprised to find that she herself had been crying. She quickly brushed away the tears and returned her hand to her lap, unconsciously fidgeting with the diamond studded golden band that encircled her left ring finger. It had become a habit lately. Already the skin was nearly rubbed raw from the repeated twisting and twirling of the metal about her finger.

"…And of course, we'll have to decide on the flower arrangements, though it may be a bit difficult to find exactly what we want this time of year. Do you prefer roses or lilies, Christine?" The young vicomte paused in his anxious pacing and turned to glance at his fiancé, a concerned look on his face. He gently placed a hand on her shoulder. "Christine? Christine, are you even listening to me?"

Startled out of her reverie, the girl jumped, yanking the ring a bit harder than she intended. It fell to the ground, bouncing off the marble floor with a metallic clink where it landed at the vicomte's feet.

Christine lifted her gaze from the window to her future husband's worried face. "I'm sorry, Raoul. My mind was elsewhere. I was just…thinking…"

Without a word, he knelt to pick up the ring and, taking her hand in his, slipped it back into place. He allowed his hand to linger for a moment, looking up into her eyes. "Christine, what's troubling you? Are you still thinking of the phantom? You know he can no longer do anything to harm us. We are free from his grasp."

Christine bit her lip. "It is not that which concerns me. Raoul, what if he's out there – in this storm? He has nowhere to go now. The opera house is in ruins and all of Paris is searching for him."

"He brought that upon himself, Christine. It was his choice to destroy the opera house, his choice to commit those crimes."

She looked down at their hands, unable to meet his eyes. She remembered when another man had held her hand, when another ring was on her finger. Her voice was scarcely a whisper. "I do not think he ever intended things to end that way."

The vicomte lifted her chin so that he could once again look into her troubled brown eyes. "Christine, he set you free – set us free. He would not want you to worry over such things. Besides," his voice softened, "our wedding day is nearly upon us. You should be happy."

Christine felt another involuntary tear slip down her cheek. _Yes_, she thought, _I should be happy. So why do I feel as though I've left a piece of my heart at the Opera Populaire? I do not love him as I love Raoul, but…_

"But what if he _is_ out there, Raoul? What if he's cold and alone? Or even worse, what if he's in some jail cell, being treated like some kind of animal, awaiting execution?" She raised a hand to her face as if attempting to ward off a massive headache. "Oh, this is all my fault! I broke his heart…"

Raoul gave her hand a gentle squeeze. "You did what you had to do, Christine. You did the right thing."

The former singer shook her head, dark curls bouncing against her shoulders. "When I went back to give him the ring, to say goodbye, the way he looked at me…You should have seen his face."

The vicomte's eyes widened slightly. "Oh, believe me, I saw his face…"

"Raoul!" Christine scolded sharply.

"I'm sorry, Christine, but you must admit he does have a face that's hard to forget."

"Yes...He does…" Her eyes were distant, as if she could still see the opera ghost's unmasked features, though there was neither horror nor disgust evident in her gaze. She shook herself from thoughts of the mysterious Angel of Music and turned back to her betrothed. "I know you do not understand my feelings for him, Raoul, nor do I expect you to. I'm not even certain I understand them myself. But he was my teacher – my friend, my guardian angel – for nearly ten years growing up at the opera house, though I only knew him as a voice at the time. I know that he deceived me. I know that he has done horrible things, but I cannot bring myself to hate him. Nor, after seeing him for what he truly is – a broken man with a broken heart brought on by the callousness of the world – can I truly fear him any longer."

Raoul's warm grasp on her hand slackened. "Christine…What exactly _are_ your feelings for him? For me? Are you having second thoughts about the wedding?"

"I…I don't know…I know that I love you, Raoul, but…but everything has happened so quickly these past few days. I think perhaps I need a bit of time to think…to find closure for one chapter of my life before another begins."

Raoul nodded. "That's understandable. You've been through quite a lot lately, Little Lotte."

Christine bit her lip again, unsure of how to ask the question that was on her mind. "Raoul, when we left, we went in such a hurry that I never really got the chance to say goodbye to Meg. She was like a sister to me, Raoul, and Madame Giry like a mother. They were the closest thing to family I had after my father died." She could feel the tears stinging the back of her eyes again, but she quickly forced them back, willing herself to be happy for Raoul's sake. He had done so much for her, it was the least she could do. "Ever since I was seven years old, the opera house has been the only home I've known, with occasional trips to the Girys' house during the summertime." She licked her lips and took a deep breath. "I was wondering whether it might be possible for me to go back and visit them for a few days. Just until I can sort things out."

Raoul smiled gently. "Of course. Take as long as you need." He stood, still holding her hand and pulling her up into a standing position. Leaning down, he placed a soft kiss on her forehead. "I'll still be here waiting for you when you get back."

Christine pulled back and looked up into his eyes, her own dark gaze filled with emotion. "Thank you for understanding."

The carriage ride to the Giry residence was long and wet. Believing it would be safer for her to leave before the roads and bridges became impassible with ice, Raoul had sent her off in the first carriage available, hoping she would arrive at her destination before nightfall when the temperature would start to drop. At first, Christine had nearly objected, fearing for the health of the coachman and the horses responsible for taking her out in the storm, but when she realized that it might be several days before she could leave if she waited until morning, she reconsidered, making a mental note to leave the driver an extra large tip and stuffing a few sugar cubes into her pocket to give the horses upon their arrival.

As they plodded down the muddy, slushy road, Christine again turned her head to look out the window. Already the puddles were beginning to show signs of freezing over, and the clouds that blanketed the French sky were turning a dark slate gray. An icy gust of wind blew in the open window and she shuddered, wrapping the wool cloak more tightly around her shoulders and silently cursing herself for not thinking to grab some of her warmer clothing from the opera house before leaving, though she supposed it wouldn't have mattered. Most likely her dressing room and the dorms had been destroyed by the fire.

Thinking of the opera house again, she frowned. She wondered if _he_ was still there. Would it be possible for her to go back and see him one last time? Did she even want to see him again? Would _he_ still want to see _her_, or would she just be another painful reminder of what the world told him he could want but never have? It was, she reluctantly admitted, unlikely that he would have returned to his underground lair after the mob had discovered it, and yet, where else would he go? Ordinarily, he would have been able to outwit the police with ease, and this thought brought some comfort to her. Perhaps he had managed to escape. But, given his emotional state at the time, she wondered whether he might not have willingly given himself up.

There was only one way to find out. She would have to go back to the opera house, back to the dungeons in that underground lair, back to the darkness of that strange world where day and night seemed to merge, where she first saw that hideous face, where she had first heard the siren's call of his music in all of its glory. She shivered, unsure of whether it was from the cold or the dark thoughts that haunted her mind. He had a powerful hold on her thoughts even now, even this far away. Had she condemned a man to death, a man who, though a murderer himself, had loved her with an intensity and passion she had never known before? It had frightened her to feel with such heightened senses, such strength, such power even more than the man himself had frightened her with his murderous acts. Truth be told, his face was probably the feature that frightened her the least.

And now she was afraid to find the answer to her question. It was dangerous, she knew, to return to the opera house. The fire had likely ruined the place to the point where it would be hazardous to walk in and out of the building, much less to go beneath the foundation, and if she found him in one of his deranged states, her life would certainly be in danger. But finding the place empty would be ten times worse…To know that he had been captured because of her would make her blood run cold. He was a murderer, and yet, she had led the police right to him, had exposed him before all of Paris so that he was not only humiliated but also made unmistakable if he were to be found. If he turned himself in because of her…if he was executed because of her…did that not make her a murderer as well?

She _had_ to know. It was against her better judgment, she knew, but she just had to know. Just like she _had_ to know the man behind the voice. Just like she _had _to know what lay beneath the mask. That burning curiosity had gotten her into a lot of trouble before, and it likely would again. Perhaps it would be safer, more comfortable, _not_ knowing, but she would always wonder if she never even tried to find out. And if there was one thing her father had taught her, it was that taking the easy way out was usually not the best option.

She frowned again. It had been easy, she mused, to fall in love with Raoul. He was her childhood sweetheart, her best friend during those carefree days when they had lived by the sea. He was handsome. He was wealthy. He had a title. He was loyal and kind and caring. He had been willing to die for her. It was easy to love someone who had it all. It was much more difficult to love an angel with broken wings, to love a man who believed he was a monster. He was the Opera Ghost, the Phantom, the Angel of Music who had turned out to be nothing more than a man. He was deformed. He was a liar, a killer. He had no title, no family. Not even a real name – at least, not to her knowledge. He was temperamental and obsessive and perhaps even a bit mentally unstable. BUT he had let them go. Even when his heart was breaking, even when he could have taken his enemy's life and taken her against her will. Raoul had been willing to die for her _in the name of_ love, but he had been willing to die _of_ love to make her happy. That surely meant something.

Sighing, she dropped her head to her hands and rubbed her temples. All of this deep thinking was giving her a headache! Thankfully, she was interrupted from further thoughts of this nature when the carriage came to a sudden halt in front of a small brick cottage. Grabbing the small bag of possessions which she'd brought with her from the de Changy house, Christine hurriedly paid the coachman, thanking him for his time and passing along the sugar cubes for him to give the horses. Then, running as quickly as she could, made a mad dash for the front door, hoping desperately that they were at home. She rapped gently on the door. When there was no response, she tried again, this time knocking a bit harder. Still no response. At this point, she was fairly banging on the door.

"Madame Giry?" she shouted. "Meg? Are you home?" Sighing in defeat, she had just turned to go back to the carriage when she heard the faint shouting of a rather irritated Madame Giry.

"I am coming! I am coming! There is no need to break down the door! Who in their right mind would be out in this weather and at this time of – " There was the click of a doorknob, and the ballet instructor's hand flew to her heart. "Oh! Christine! Good heavens, child, you are soaked! Come in! Come in!"

Sometime later that evening, Christine found herself wrapped in a quilt, sitting on a comfortable silk sofa in front of a blazing fire. In her lap a small gray cat was curled up in a ball, purring contentedly. Christine took a small sip from the steaming cup of tea in her right hand and smiled at the memory of when she had first met the cat. Shortly after her arrival at the opera house, when she still knew very few people, she and Meg had come across a tiny gray kitten wandering around inside the chapel. For awhile they kept it a secret, hiding it as best they could and sneaking it scraps of food from their plates. Inevitably, Madame Giry eventually found out and scolded them for keeping a cat in the dormitories. But, unable to turn away a creature in need, she finally gave in to their pleas and agreed to speak with the managers about the benefits of having a cat around to eliminate some of the rats known to wander about the opera house. Ever since then, the cat had lived at the opera. Of course, all the ballet girls made a fuss over her, but no one ever questioned that the cat belonged to Meg and her. At the time, she had believed the kitten to be a miracle, a companion sent straight from heaven to ease her loneliness in a new place full of strangers. How else did a cat get that far into the opera house? Thinking back on it now, she realized that her less-than-heavenly tutor had likely overheard her prayers, and she wondered now whether he had been the one to slip the tiny ball of fur into the chapel. She smiled at the thought, stroking the cat's silky fur and feeling the rumble of her purr against her hand. Miracle or not, it was still, she decided, an answer to prayer. Perhaps the Opera Ghost was more of an angel than he realized.

She took another sip of her tea as Madame Giry took a seat beside her on the couch. The older woman smiled. "I see Élise has not forgotten you."

"He put her there, didn't he? In the church?"

There was no need for her to specify to whom she was referring.

Madame Giry shook her head and sighed, as if reproving a stubborn child, her long braid sweeping against the lacy fringe of the pillows. "Yes. I told him I could not keep her in the opera house, but he insisted on giving her to you, giving the excuse that he could not care for her himself." She smiled sadly. "Strange, that he could kill a man without a second thought, and yet he could not leave a starving kitten on the streets. I know he can be…" She struggled for the right word. "…difficult…but he really does have a good heart. He has just forgotten how to use it."

Christine frowned guiltily and stared into the teacup as if somehow its contents would reveal the answers to all of her questions. She wanted to ask why the woman who had become a second mother to her had allowed her to be deceived in such a way. She wanted to know how she knew so much about the Opera Ghost, why she was on such good terms with him. She wanted to ask a thousand questions, but instead, she asked only one. "How…how is he?"  
>The ballet mistress bowed her head. "No one has seen him since the night of the fire."<p>

Christine looked hopeful. "Then he escaped?"

"It is…possible…yes…"

Christine looked worried. "But?"

"They found a body, Christine."

The former opera star slowly returned the teacup, which had been halfway to her lips, to the saucer, hands trembling. "What?"

Madame Giry folded her hands in her lap and stared into the flames. "When we arrived, it looked as though he had vanished. Meg found a secret tunnel behind some curtains, so we followed it until we reached a fork in the path. One route led to the streets of Paris, but the other…" She hesitated, glancing at her student. "The other led to the passage connected to the mirror in your dressing room."

Christine gasped.

"The smoke was too thick for us to see through, and we dared not go back in, but after the firemen arrived they reported that a body had been found. It was too badly burned to identify by the features, but it satisfied the police, if for no other reason than to placate the public. Here." She produced a folded piece of paper from her pocket and held it out to her pupil. "See for yourself."

Carefully, Christine unfolded the paper to reveal a newspaper clipping. The letters glared up at her in big, bold print: **FIRE DESTROYS OPERA HOUSE, "PHANTOM" DIES IN THE FLAMES **[1]. Numbly, she set the paper aside, unable to read any further. She looked as though all the blood had been drained from her face. "No," she whispered. A few silent tears slipped down her cheeks. "Do…do you believe that it was him?"

The older woman thought for a moment before responding. "He left his mask in the dungeons."

The girl could feel the tremble in her voice, the stinging in her eyes. "B-but he never goes anywhere without his mask."

Madame Giry smiled sadly, the orange glow of the firelight reflecting off the tears pooling in her own eyes. "I know."

[1] My idea for the newspaper article announcing the phantom's death is based very loosely on the original novel by Gaston Leroux in which the paper publishes a simple, one-sentence obituary notice: "Erik is dead." Also, I think it should be noted that there actually was a fire that destroyed the Paris Opera House in October of 1873, so while it doesn't _exactly_ match up with the date given in the film (1870), it's fairly close. I'm not certain if the film-makers tried to tie in this historical event on purpose, or if it was merely coincidental (the book has a chandelier crash but no fire, if I recall correctly). Additionally, the chandelier crash _was _based on a real incident that occurred in the 1890s, though the crash only resulted in the death of one person. Anyway, I just thought that was interesting and wanted to share it. Wow! World's longest footnote EVER! XD


	2. Erik

**Chapter Two: Erik**

Walking through the remains of the opera house was both eerie and saddening. It was quiet. Too quiet. Like the silence of the grave, like the silence of the tomb. How many people had lost their lives in the fire? How many souls had suffered in these walls? Their spirits seemed to linger, whispering in the breeze that came through the broken windows, slinking in the shadows of the smoke-stained walls, swirling in the ash that fluttered up like powdery snow with every footstep that echoed through the deserted halls. Once, this place had been beautiful. Once, its halls had echoed with the laughter of a thousand spectators, with the voices that could rival the angels. Now it was in ruins. If it had been frightening when the Phantom was alive, it was horrifying now that he was gone. It was as if the opera house itself was in mourning, as if the very soul of music had died with him, leaving the place deserted and empty, devoid of all the passion with which he had brought it to life.

A sudden movement out of the corner of her eye caught Christine's attention. A flash of midnight, a streak of black like the corner of a cape, like a spectral silhouette. Glancing nervously back over her shoulder, Christine hurried her steps. Was it _him_? Could it be that he was haunting her, no longer a man but truly a ghost of the opera, doomed to walk its halls forever? There it was again! Something moving in the shadows, something hiding in the dark. Her pace quickened and her breathing came in quick bursts. The blood was pounding in her ears. Her heart was beating so loudly she was certain that she could hear its rhythm reverberating off the walls. No – it was music! _His_ music! It came like a siren's call, wafting over the waves.

_I am the Angel of Music. Come to me, Angel of Music._

The haunting melody, once so sweet and entrancing, now made her blood run cold.

_I am the Angel of Music. Come to me, Angel of Music._

Screaming, she dropped the flowers she had been carrying and ran to the chapel. When she turned to look back, the flowers had vanished. Had she looked a bit closer, she would have noticed a shadowy figure retreating into the darkness, its only distinguishable feature a white half-mask that seemed to float where its head should have been.

Slamming the door behind her, she stood with her back against the oaken panel, breathing heavily before slowly sinking to the floor. Though much of the opera house had been destroyed in the flames, the simple chapel, a small room near the back of the building composed mainly of stone, had managed to emerge relatively unscathed. It was just as she remembered it. Even the stained-glass window remained intact, the sun's afternoon rays filtering through the colored glass and giving the room a soft, comforting glow. Calmed by the presence of familiarity and light, Christine carefully lit two candles – one for her father and one for her nameless angel. A fallen angel, perhaps, but still her angel. _No, not an angel_, she reminded herself_, he is – was – only a man. But what else do I call him when I do not know his name? Phantom surely seems too harsh of a title for paying respects to the dead! No, he shall be my Angel of Music still. Oh, how I wish that were true! How I wish things had not turned out this way! If only I had not been so curious, perhaps I would not have followed him, perhaps I never would have removed his mask. Perhaps it would have been better if he had remained only The Voice. Perhaps then he would still be alive._

With these thoughts in mind, she knelt down, closed her eyes, and began pouring out her heart in song and prayer, hoping that, if nothing else, she might try to give him some peace in the afterlife. Raising her voice in a heartfelt and familiar melody, the words flowed from her lips with all the tenderness and sincerity of a woman in love, for though she loved her fiancé and deeply cared about her Angel, her first love had always been music and the God who had given her such a voice. And she always sang best when she was singing for Him.

_No more talk of darkness, I give you all my fears._

_ You're here, nothing can harm me. Your Word, it warms and calms me._

_ You gave me my freedom. You gave me my life._

_ You're here, always beside me, to guard me and to guide me._

_ Show Your mercy every waking moment. Show me what to do with my life._

_ I know I need You with me now and always. Help me know that all You say is true. _

_ That's all I ask of You._

_ You have been my shelter. You have been my Light._

_ I know with You beside me, You'll protect and You'll hide me._

_ Show Your mercy that is new each morning. Forgive those who fail to follow You._

_ Show Your mercy to him now and always. Forgive him as you know I do._

_ Please, Lord, that's all I ask of You._

_ Forgive him. That's all I ask of You._

Christine felt the increasingly familiar warmth of tears on her cheek. "And please," she whispered, "please let him forgive me, too."

"I already have."

Her eyes snapped open. Glancing wildly around the empty room, she was suddenly uneasy. "Who said that? Who's there?...Whoever you are, I demand to see you!"

"Come, Christine. You know I prefer to be heard and not seen. Surely you have not forgotten the voice of an old friend so quickly?"

Forget? How could she ever forget _that_ voice? That beautiful, haunting, disembodied voice who had once brought her so much comfort and peace. That angelic voice who had called to her in her dreams, who had sung her to sleep as a child. That magnificent voice filled with passion and pain. That voice who had sung to her of love and betrayal, of tenderness and violence, of self-loathing and selflessness. No, Christine could never forget _that_ voice.

"Y-you can't be here. You're dead!"

"Am I, now?"

From the shadows in the far corner, a figure emerged. Wrapped in a dark cloak and clad in black boots and gloves, he was an intimidating sight. Even his hair, which she now knew to be only a wig, was dark. A familiar white porcelain half-mask covered the right side of his face. He took a step toward the girl, only to have her shrink back toward a corner on the opposite side of the room.

"You're not real…You can't be!"

Frowning, the spectral visitor came further into the light and knelt down so that he was at eye level with her. He looked genuinely hurt. "Christine, please, don't be afraid of me." He reached out a gloved hand and gently caressed her cheek, turning her head so that she faced him. "Hideous though I may appear inside and out, whether in life or in death, you should know that I would never harm you."

Christine's eyes widened. She had _felt_ that! She had actually felt his fingers touch her face! And they were not the cold, unfeeling fingers of a dead man or a ghost. They radiated with warmth and life. Which meant… "Angel?" she whispered.

"No," he corrected. Hesitantly, he took her hand, rubbing his thumb against the back of her palm. "Erik. My name is Erik."

Suddenly, his thumb found something hard and metallic. Seeing the ring, he stood and turned away. His voice was suddenly cold. "You should not have come back, Christine."

The girl walked toward him and timidly placed a hand on his shoulder. "I shall not wear it if it troubles you."

"Are you happy with your…" Erik closed his eyes, as if in pain. He wasn't sure if he could say the word out loud. "…your husband?"

"He is not my husband," she snapped. Christine was shocked at her own audacity. When did she become so defensive of her status as a single young woman? "…Yet…" she added, somewhat more quietly.

"But he will be, in time. And then you can forget me and move on with your life…When is the wedding?"

Christine's hand slipped slowly from his shoulder. She stared at the ground. "In two weeks."

The phantom smiled ruefully. "I suppose I am not on the guest list…"

"No," Christine whispered, "but you may come if you wish. I would like for you to be there."

"It would probably be in the Vicomte de Changy's best interest if I were not."

The implication of his words sent shivers down her spine. The thought of Raoul hanging from the church ceiling on their wedding day was not something Christine wished to think about. The room seemed suddenly colder, the air thicker, as if an invisible wall had arisen between them. They stood in silence for a moment, neither one knowing what to say.

Christine was the first to break the silence. "Even after all that has happened…Even though we do not feel the same way for one another…you are still my Angel. You always will be."

"Do not call me that, Christine. You know as well as I do that I am more monster than man, more devil than angel. You know the horrors I am capable of. God has cursed me with the face of a demon, and so a demon I shall be!"

Christine was suddenly indignant. "Do _not_ blame your sins on God! _You _made the decision to murder Joseph Buquet! _You_ made that chandelier fall! _You_ killed all those innocent people."

He turned slowly to face her, speaking through clenched teeth. "They deserved it."

"For what? For being in the wrong place at the wrong time? For seeing your face?"

Grabbing her by the arms, he shoved her against the wall, looking suddenly dangerous. "No, that was YOUR fault, WASN'T IT?" He took a moment to calm himself. When he spoke, his voice was a low hiss, ragged with jealously and pain. "All that I did, I did out of love for you. And you betrayed me."

"You had no right to kill those men."

"AND WHAT RIGHT HAD THEY? What right had they to jeer, to mock? What right had humanity to banish me from their sight, to bar me from companionship or love of any kind and leave me to rot away in a living HELL labeled as the devil's spawn?...Society wanted me to be a child of Satan, so I made certain they knew that I _was_! I had EVERY right to exercise my vengeance!"

Christine shook her head sadly, eyes filled with tears. "You have hidden for so long behind that mask, that you have forgotten what it is like to be human. Your deformity itself is as a mask you use to shield yourself from guilt by using it as an excuse for your behavior. You are what you have made yourself. Fear does _not_ turn to love, Erik! Nor does it turn into respect. The world may believe you to be the devil's child, but the mask does not fool me. I can see straight through it. I know you're better than that…I just wish that you could see that for yourself."

She allowed a single tear to slip free then, shoving him aside, turned and ran out the door. Reluctantly, he watched her leave, waiting until her shape melted into the shadows and the echoes of her footsteps dissolved into silence before he fell to his knees and allowed his own tears to flow.


	3. What the Heart Wants

**Chapter Three: What the Heart Wants**

Christine returned to the Giry household quiet and subdued. She was greeted at the front door by Meg who, seeing her friend upset, immediately pulled her into an hug.

"I am sorry, Christine. He was a good tutor, even if he was not such a good man. I know you will miss him."

Christine closed her eyes and rested her head against her best friend's chest, returning the embrace. "More than you know, Meg. More than you know."

Late that evening after dinner, Christine was helping her ballet instructor clean the dishes. Meg had gone to bed early, excusing herself from dinner because she did not feel well, and the house was quiet save for the soft ticking of the old wooden clock on the mantle and the crackling of the fire. The two women worked together in silence, lost in thought, the clinking of the blue and white china and the sloshing of soapy water their only conversation.

"Christine, you have barely said two words since came home. What did he say to you?"

Christine looked up, startled, nearly dropping the plate in her hand. "How did you know about that?"

"I have my ways." Seeing that Christine was not satisfied with her cryptic answer, she went on to explain. "Erik is an old friend of mine. I have known him for many years – before he was the Opera Ghost. I had a feeling he would come."

"But just the other night you said he was dead, and – "

Madame Giry held up a hand. "No. No, I did not say that." Christine opened her mouth to protest, but the older woman's stern matronly gaze stopped her. "I told you that the papers _claimed_ he was dead, but I also said there was a _possibility_ that he escaped."

"But the body in my dressing room – "

"Was obviously _not_ Erik."

"Then who…?"

Madame Giry shook her head. "As I said before, it was burned beyond recognition. Likely an adoring fan of yours, perhaps one of the mob come to loot the room during the confusion of the fire, or possibly one of the stagehands looking for you. I do not know. But the police believed it was Erik, and I would not dare tell them otherwise."

Christine looked hurt, betrayed. "If you knew all of this, why didn't you tell me?"

"He wanted _everyone_ to believe he was dead, Christine, including you."

"Because he wanted me to feel guilty?"

"Because he loves you. He knew that if anyone was caught helping him, if anyone knew of his whereabouts and did not share them, they would be held accountable for being an accomplice to murder. By keeping you in dark, he was protecting you and giving you the freedom to be happy with the vicomte without feeling any kind of obligation to him. He told me that if you were to ask, I should convince you that he was dead. I believe he assumed that would keep you away from the opera house...But when you came anyway, I think it was too much for him, too difficult for him to remain in the shadows."

"You said no one had seen him since the fire…that he wanted _everyone_ to believe he was dead, but he came to you."

"He had nowhere else to go. And I did not _see_ him, _ma cherie_. You know better than I his talent for throwing his voice. He did not let me see him because he did not want to put me in a position where I would have to lie to the authorities. I let him stay in the old gardener's shed for a few days after the fire and gave him some food to take back, but he never showed himself. As long as I did not see him, I could not be considered a true witness. If I had reported hearing voices, I would have perhaps been labeled as a bit mad, but not a criminal." She sighed. "This will be the second time I have been his accomplice, and God forgive me, but I could not let them find him. He is as a son or a younger brother to me."

Christine looked surprised. "The _second_ time?"

Madame Giry sighed again. "The first time was many years ago…He was just a boy, then, perhaps twelve or thirteen. I was not much older. He had been in a traveling circus, a freak show, exhibited as 'The Devil's Child' and treated like a wild animal – no, worse! When he killed his master, I was the one who helped him escape." She looked down. "I know what he did was wrong, but I cannot say that I would have done differently if I had been in his place. I took him to the opera house, and he has been there ever since."

Christine took a moment to think over all that had been said. "You knew, then? You knew that he loved me…that he was going to take me beneath the opera house?"

The ballet mistress nodded. "I knew. But I also knew that he would never hurt you. Had I known the consequences of my mistake, I never would have allowed it. I let things go too far…but I had hoped that perhaps you might be the one break him from his dark prison, to free him from himself. I now know that what I did was wrong, and I am sorry for the trouble that I have caused you, but please know that I was only doing what I thought was best at the time."

Christine paused thoughtfully before proceeding with her next question. "Does Meg know?"

"She knows about his history. She knows that he did not die in the fire. I did not tell her of his feelings for you, though I suspect she may have come to her own conclusions. I do not think she knows what happened today." Madame Giry was silent for a moment. Then, as if none of their previous conversation had taken place, she returned to her original question. "So…what did he say to you that has upset you so?"

The girl shook her head. "You know, when I went back to the opera house today, everything was so different, so gray. It was as if all the life had been drained from the place, as if it had been deserted for years, not days…I thought…I thought I saw something in the shadows, and then I thought I must be losing my mind because I could _hear_ him! I could still hear his singing, even when I knew that could not be possible. It seems silly now, but I actually thought he was a ghost! He gave me quite a fright when he revealed himself in the chapel. I was so happy to see that he was alive, and at first, I thought he was happy to see me, too." She gave a half-hearted laugh. "How strange that the same hands that can murder in cold blood can be so warm and gentle…" She shook her head, trying to banish the thought of his gloved hand caressing her cheek and the frightening yet not altogether unpleasant feelings it had stirred within her. She frowned. "We…we had an argument. I think by the time I left, he wished I'd never even come."

"I see." The older woman moved to stack the dishes that had been dried and returned them to their place in the cupboard. "And what was this argument about?"

"He said he has forgiven me, but in his heart, I think he still blames me for exposing him…and leaving him. And to be honest, I cannot blame him. He insists that he has done nothing wrong, that the world has wronged him and that gives him license to do as he pleases. He blames his behavior on his face, saying that God has cursed him to live such a miserable existence. I think he has become so accustomed to being treated as some kind of monster that he actually believes he is one."

"And what did you say?"

"I told him that he was using his deformity as an excuse. I don't understand…I know that he is capable of compassion. That Raoul is still alive and I am not his prisoner are proof of that. Why must he be so stubborn in his will to live up to society's cruelty? He believes that exacting vengeance will solve his problems, but he is only perpetuating his own misery, giving them yet another reason to hate him."

"But you do not hate him." It was a statement, not a question.

"No. Perhaps I should, but I do not."

"He told me what you did for him. I am proud of you, Christine. You will never know how much that moment of happiness, however brief, means to him. Even if it was only out of pity or concern for Raoul that you acted, it was still probably the kindest thing anyone has ever done for him."

Christine hesitated, afraid that if she voiced her feelings aloud it would make them too real. She felt ashamed to have such longings, such desires for another man when she was promised to Raoul. That she had experienced such feelings at all seemed sinful and unclean, for she had never even kissed a man before Raoul. They were feelings that she could not explain, that both frightened and excited her. Suddenly, she longed to be back in Raoul's arms, far away from the opera house and these strange, discomforting emotions she felt for the Phantom.

"I am not entirely certain," she whispered, "that pity was my only motive."

Madame Giry smiled knowingly, inviting her to continue, her matronly eyes wise and understanding.

Christine took a deep breath. This is why she had come here. If anyone could help her make sense of her emotions it would be her, and yet now that the time had come for her to bear her heart before the ballet mistress, she suddenly became shy.

"When I kissed him, it was like nothing I had ever felt before. Like fireworks raining down, like lightning on my lips, like a fire coursing through my veins. Like magic." She smiled wistfully at the memory of his lips on hers, soft and gentle, wet with tears. "When Raoul kisses me, it is different. I am comfortable…and happy…but there is no spark. I know he loves me, and I think I love him, but he has changed since he was a boy. Not in a bad way. He's just…different. We cannot talk the way we used to. He has grown up in the world of politics and high society and I have grown up in the world of music. Raoul tries to understand, but he cannot feel the music, cannot make it come alive the way that _he_ could." Christine sighed again. "When we were on stage…when we were dancing…the way he held me, it…it was like there were no other people in the entire world. Like nothing else mattered. It was not act on his part, and not entirely on mine." She looked down guiltily. "I think Raoul noticed it, too." Suddenly she looked up, eyes filled with anguish. "Madame Giry, I am frightened by these emotions! I'm so confused…"

"Love is a confusing feeling, Christine."

"But I don't know what to do! The wedding is in two week's time, and I'm not even sure I want to marry him anymore!" Christine clapped her hands over her mouth, realizing what a scandalous thing she had said. "I did not mean to say that…"

She met her teacher's eyes hesitantly, relieved to find that Madame Giry did not appear the least bit angry. If anything, she looked slightly amused.

"But it is true, yes?"

Christine lowered her eyes again. "Yes."

Madame Giry placed a hand on her shoulder. "Christine, what are your exact feelings for Raoul? For Erik?"

"I _don't know_! Raoul has always been kind to me. He is the perfect gentleman and a wonderful man. He is, perhaps other than Meg, my best friend. Erik is so…complex and difficult to understand. One moment it seems as though he loves me and the next, he is shoving me away! And the intensity of desires that he awakens within my soul terrify me."

"You must remember that Erik has received very little kindness in his life, Christine. He has a difficult time conveying his feelings for you because so few have shown love to him. I have tried my best to be there for him, but…there are some places in his heart that even I cannot reach. As for your feelings, they are perfectly normal. I know such feelings can be frightening, but they are not wrong unless you act on them inappropriately. There is a difference between love and lust, Christine. Desire without love is lust. Desire with love is passion."

"But I care for them both, and I do not wish to hurt either one of them!"

"I'm afraid that may not be possible, Christine. I will not encourage you one way or the other, but eventually, you must choose."

"I know."

Madame Giry lifted the girl's chin and looked into her eyes. "You may not be able to give both of them what they want, Christine, but they both desire for you to be happy above all else. So the real question is…what do _you _want?"


	4. Sweet Deception

**Chapter Four: Sweet Deception**

Christine ran her fingers along the edges of what had once been a beautiful mahogany dresser in her old dressing room. The wood, once a rich russet brown, was now a sickly charcoal gray splattered with large puddles of wax beneath the slightly misshapen silver candelabras The mirrors around the vanity appeared as though they had been smashed, cracked and shattered from the intensity of the flames, though the full-length mirror remained intact. The massive bouquets of fresh-cut flowers that had previously adorned the room had been reduced to heaps of ashes, making the crystal vases look more like funeral urns. Here and there, a few flowers had managed to survive the ordeal, though in reality they no longer resembled what they had once been, their stems brittle and brown, their petals blackened and shriveled.

But wait! There was one that looked as though it had just been picked, as if the fire had not touched it at all. Curious, Christine picked it up. It was a red rose with a black ribbon tied around it. He had been expecting her! Glancing around the room, she spotted another rose, this time at the foot of the mirror. Walking over, she carefully picked it up and slid the glass to the side, peering inside timidly. Spider webs were draped from the ceiling and walls like silver satin, their eight-legged seamstress sitting patiently in the dark recesses, awaiting their next victim. Overhead, the faint squeaking of a bat could be heard, its high-pitched cry echoing off the dank cellar walls. At the far end of the corridor, where daylight dissolved into darkness, two large, beady-eyed rats scurried off, disappearing around the corner, and she instantly wished for Élise. How much brighter it had seemed when _he_ had been leading her down those halls! How much safer she had felt when holding his hand! But now there was no Angel to guide her, no candles to light the way.

Taking a step inside, she hesitantly tiptoed down the alley until she came to the edge of the light from her room. She stopped, glancing back over her shoulder. Surely she would break her neck if she tried to descend those stairs in the dark! And even if she managed not to injure herself on the way down, it seemed likely she would get lost. But then, as if on cue, she heard music drifting up from the darkness of the dungeons. It was faint, but if she followed it, she thought she might be able find her way. Taking one last glance over her shoulder, she put her hand to the wall and began slowly feeling her way down the passage, stopping every few feet to listen for the direction of the music. Gradually, it became louder, and she stumbled a bit as she came to the stairs, which she recognized as the place where she had ridden Caesar, the black stallion. Finally, she began to see a faint light at the end of the tunnel where she found a boat waiting for her, another rose lashed to the pole with his signature black ribbon. The music was loud now, the thunderous crescendo of a pipe organ rolling in over the water like storm clouds over the sea. Carefully stepping into the boat, she took the pole in her hands and attempted to shove off, but having never actually poled the boat herself, she had a bit of difficulty trying to simultaneously maintain her balance and "steer" the boat in the right direction. After going in circles for few minutes and nearly falling into the water, however, she finally managed to get going, though her technique was not nearly as graceful as Erik's. Going in a straight line was harder than it looked! At long last she reached the gateway to his underground lair, which thankfully, had been left open, and making her way to the water's edge, docked the boat.

So absorbed was Erik in his music that it appeared he had not noticed Christine's arrival but continued to play uninterrupted. She studied him now, in the soft light of the candles' glow, his toned upper body covered only by a thin, lacy undershirt, his dark wig slicked back neatly. She frowned. Why would he feel the need to wear a wig in the comfort of his own home? It was not as though he had many visitors. Did he truly find himself so repulsive? Of course, he had suspected that she would be coming, so perhaps he had worn it for her convenience, but she had already seen him without it before…Did he not realize that his appearance did not bother her? It troubled her that he still felt the need to hide his defect from her.

Slowly, she approached him from behind, watching his slender fingers dance across the keys. His head was tilted back slightly, revealing the gleam of white porcelain covering the right half of his face. His eyes were closed, as if he were in some sort of trance. He did not need to see the keys to know which notes to play; he did not need a music sheet to guide him. He could feel the music in his heart. It was in his soul, in his blood, the melody flowing effortlessly from his fingertips. Oh, how he had missed the music during his days in hiding! It was a release for him, a flood of emotions too deep and heartfelt to be expressed any other way. It was anger; it was loss; it was joy; it was pain – all woven together with chords of love. It was all the things he had wanted to say to her but could not. To any other, it might have been merely another opera melody – a magnificent one, no doubt, composed by a musical genius, but still, just another piece of music. But Christine could sense the message in his music, could understand its meaning as clearly as though the words had been written on paper. By the time the song was coming to a close, she realized that he had been aware of her presence the entire time and had continued to play to convey what words could not. He sat still now, hands folded in his lap, head bowed, awaiting her reaction. Tentatively, she stepped forward, placing a hand on his left shoulder and bringing it slowly to his face. This time she made no attempt to remove the mask but simply allowed her hand to stay there, feeling the warmth of his breath against her skin as he closed his eyes and leaned into her touch. And he suddenly found himself wondering what it feel like for her to stroke the _other _side of his face, to run her fingers over its scarred, misshapen surface and through his hair – his real hair – the way she now was stroking his left cheek. But that could never happen, so he put the thought out of his mind and tried to ignore the cool band of gold that interrupted the warmth of her fingers, satisfied simply to feel her skin touching his own.

"Christine…" His voice was barely a whisper. Slowly, he turned to face her and rose from the stool, taking her hand in his as he had done the day before, but this time there was no glove to dull the touch. "Forgive me, Christine."

She smiled softly. "I already have."

Time passed quickly after Christine's arrival, the two of them slipping into conversation as casually as though nothing had ever happened, as though he was still her invisible tutor and she, his willing student. They spoke of everything and nothing, reminiscing the past with smiles and tears.

They spoke of the fire, of what had happened after her departure and how he had escaped, of how she and Raoul had been getting along. There was no mention of what had passed between them. The kiss that they had shared was a topic neither one of them was quite ready to breach. It was a subject too personal that would likely rekindle feelings and evoke words better left unsaid, and so they kept an unwritten contract to keep those memories locked away safely within their hearts. There was no sense in ruining the evening together.

They spoke of her early days at the Opera house and how their friendship had begun. Christine remembered her eighth birthday – her first birthday without her father. She had been feeling rather sad when she walked into the ballet dorms to find a small silver music box lying on her bed. She'd had to catch her breath when she opened it, for there inside was a tiny silver angel holding a violin, playing the same Scandinavian lullaby her father used to play for her each night. She had treasured that music box dearly and had always kept it close, but one day when they were cleaning out the dorms, it disappeared. Christine had searched everywhere for it, but try as she might, she could not find it. It seemed to have simply vanished. She never had stopped searching for that music box.

Another time, when she had been sick with a fever, she'd awoken to a beautiful bouquet of flowers on her nightstand. No one knew who had left them or how they had gotten there. That night she'd claimed to have fallen asleep to the sound of angels singing. Perhaps she actually had heard them, for she had been sick for over a week and was nearly at death's door. But there was one Angel who had most certainly sung to her that night, keeping watch over her from the safety of the shadows.

He had enjoyed those days, to be sure. How he had loved to use his magic tricks to amaze and delight her, to see the look of wonder in her bright, young eyes! Of course, she had believed that the gifts were from a heavenly messenger, the spirit of her father, but they had made her smile, and that was enough to make him happy. Even then, he had loved her, though at the time it had been purely in a fatherly sense. Even then, they had shared a special connection. They shared a deep loneliness and longing, a need for someone to understand. Two hearts entwined in music, it seemed as though they had been destined to find one another. Perhaps their meeting had not been an accident. Perhaps, Christine thought to herself, her father _had_ sent her the Angel of Music…in a roundabout way.

The only topic they did not discuss was the future. Here, in the safety of the opera house, in soft glow of the candles, it seemed far away, though in truth it was lurking just around the corner. They knew what would happen. She would marry Raoul, become the new Countess de Changy [1], and live a life of luxury. He would remain in the dungeons of the disintegrating opera house, once again alone but safe from the world and its cruelty. Likely they would never see one another again…But no one dared to speak such thoughts out loud. For the moment, they simply wanted to enjoy one another's company.

As their conversation began to die down, Christine found herself yawning. Realizing that she had lost track of time, she panicked. "Oh! It's getting late! I should go…Madame Giry will start to worry…" Reluctantly, she stood to leave. "I'm sorry I have to leave so soon…It was good to see you again…" She blinked back the tears that were beginning to blur her vision. "…one last time."

He reached for her shoulder as she turned to leave. "Christine, wait. I…That is, before you leave…if you wouldn't mind, I…"

Christine tilted her head inquisitively. "You what, Erik?"

He shook his head. "Forgive me, Christine. I am not good with words outside of song, nor do I have any experience in addressing a young woman of your beauty." He saw her blush at the compliment and took that as a sign to continue. "I know you must go soon, but…would you consider joining me for dinner before you leave?"

He saw a look of concern pass over her face, as if she was debating how to turn him down gently, and he instantly regretted the invitation. He lowered his eyes, bracing himself for the reply.

Christine bit her lip. This might be her last chance to spend time with him. "Well…as long as it's only for a few minutes…I suppose I could stay a bit longer."

Christine sat at a simple wooden table overlooking a part of the underground lake she had never seen before. She had been amazed when Erik had pulled a hidden lever and the wall behind the swan bed suddenly slid away, revealing a simple kitchen and a storage room filled with sketches, books, old music sheets, and a safe in which he kept his monthly salary. The table was small, to say the least. Not much bigger than a card table and certainly not anywhere near as large as the grand dinner table that adorned the de Changy dining room. It was barely big enough to seat two people, though she assumed that wasn't usually much of problem since he generally dined alone. Despite the table's small size, he had done his best to make it attractive, setting a small porcelain vase in the center, a single red rose peering over the lip. She had yet to figure out where he kept getting so many flowers, particularly since it was the middle of winter. Then again, he _was_ a highly skilled magician. Erik sat opposite her, nervously awaiting her reaction as she again lifted the fork to her lips, chewing thoughtfully.

"Well?" He had yet to take any food from his own plate, though Christine's was nearly empty.

Christine smiled. "Erik, this is amazing! You can sing, you write music, you're a magician and a bit of an architect, and now I find out you can cook, too? Is there anything you _can't_ do?"

He let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. _Yes_, he thought ruefully, _I can't win your heart_.

Christine frowned, choosing her words carefully. "You know, you really should consider sharing some of your gifts with the world. You have so much to offer…"

He sighed. "That is something I have long yearned to be able to do."

"Then why not do it?"

His demeanor darkened. "You _know_ why not, Christine. Because of this!" He pointed to his mask, a look of utter loathing and self-disgust on his face. Beneath the table he clenched his fist, doing his best to fight back the wave of anger and bitterness that threatened to overcome him.

"Perhaps if they got the chance to know you, to see your work firsthand, they could learn to overlook – "

"No. They will never understand."

"You don't know that."

"I know that they have never given me a chance before. Why should they start now?"

"Erik, God has given you such wonderful, amazing talent. It seems a shame for the world not to even know that it exists."

He could feel the anger rising. Standing so quickly that he nearly overturned the chair, he gripped the corners of the table with enough force to turn his knuckles white. Looming over her, he sneered. "The only thing that God has ever given me is this horrid face! I do not know if I even believe that such a God exists, but if he does, he most certainly is _not_ the loving God of your father's fairy tales, and he does not answer any prayers!" He paused, closing his eyes and drawing a shaky breath. "Do you know what I pray, Christine?"

She shook her head slowly, staring up into his eyes. She longed to reach out to him, to breach the gulf of pain that separated them.

"Every night since I was a boy I have prayed for someone – just _one_ person – to love me for who I am." Beneath the mask, he could already feel the tears starting to spill over, and he was thankful that she could not see. She opened her mouth to protest, but he cut her off. "Not to pity me, Christine. To _love_ me." He took another ragged breath. "I promised that if He would answer that single prayer, I would believe." A hot, wet track slid down his unmarred cheek. "He never has."

His grip on the table slackened, and he turned away, ashamed for her to see him in his weakness as the silent tears continued to fall, his shoulders shaking with emotion. When he felt a gentle hand alight on his arm, he shrugged it off. He did not want her comfort. Had he not just said that he desired love and not pity? Somewhere in the back of his mind he knew that compassion was a form of love, but it would never be enough. He wanted her to desire to be near him because she enjoyed his presence, not because she thought he needed her. But the truth was that he _did_ need her, and the truth was that she would never be his.

"Erik…I..."

"Go," he whispered brokenly. "Just go, please." The mask was growing increasingly uncomfortable, pressing against the wet skin of his cheek. He would have to remove it soon.

Christine hesitated.

"Do you take pleasure in seeing me in pain, Christine?" he choked. "Are you no better than they? Please, just leave me be and give me the freedom to weep in peace."

Still she seemed unsure . Still she did not understand.

"The mask, Christine," he spat bitterly. "I must remove the mask."

"Then take it off. It does not bother me."

The man looked miserable. "I do not wish for you to see me like that again."

"Erik, how do you expect the world to accept you for who you are when you are not even willing to show them? I want to know that part of you, Erik – the real you – but I cannot until you trust me enough to reveal it. I hope that someday you will…In the mean time, I will respect your privacy, but I will not leave you to suffer alone. Here." She drew a lacy handkerchief from the pocket of her dress and pressed it gently into his hand, then turned her back to him, respectfully averting her gaze so that he could remove the mask. It took all of her willpower to keep from turning around and pulling him into a loving – _No, comforting! Just comforting!_ – embrace, but she remained true to her word and waited until he gave her permission to move.

"You may turn 'round now, Christine."

When she did so, she was surprised to see that he, too, had turned and was facing her, his right hand holding the handkerchief to his face as a makeshift mask. Slowly, she stepped forward with her arms open, closing the space between them and gingerly locking her arms around his waist, resting her head on his chest. She waited for the reaction, for him to push away, but it never came. Instead, she felt the warmth of his left arm closing in around her, pulling her closer. They did not speak a word, but their hearts spoke volumes. Erik closed his eyes and imagined for a moment that she was holding him for a different reason, that her arms belonged around him instead of another man. He knew it would hurt later. He knew better than to give in to her compassion, to fall prey to sweet deception. But for a moment, he could be happy. For a moment, he could be loved…even if he knew it was all a lie.

[1] Yes, I know as the wife of a vicomte (French viscount), she would technically be a _viscountess_, but the word is not often, if ever, used as a title. On Christine's grave at the end of the movie, I believe it said "Countess de Changy," assuming that Raoul became the new Count when his father (or his brother if you want to go with the book version) died. I used the phrase here because "Viscountess de Changy" just sounds really awkward. :P


	5. Beneath the Wings of an Angel

**Chapter Five: Beneath the Wings of an Angel**

Christine was the first to pull back from the embrace. Reluctantly, Erik let his arm go slack, allowing his fingers to trail the small of her back as he returned the hand to his side and turned away to replace the mask. Once again, Christine allowed him his privacy, turning to face him only when he permitted. For a moment they were silent, neither one quite certain what to say. Finally, Christine spoke up.

"I've had a wonderful time this evening, Erik, but I really should be getting back soon. Thank you for the dinner. It was lovely." He noticed that she pointedly avoided speaking about the events which had transpired _after_ dinner and was exceedingly grateful for it. "Have you any idea what time it is?"

"Time is irrelevant down here, Christine. The sun's rays do not penetrate this deep. There is no rising or setting of the sun to mark the time, no way to distinguish daylight from darkness. But the hour is late. It is already after midnight."

"Midnight?" Christine's eyes widened visibly. "Oh, dear! I should have been back hours ago! But I don't think I shall be able to catch a coach at this hour…Perhaps I could walk back. It isn't so terribly far…"

"NO!" Christine startled at his sudden outburst, and he lowered his voice, realizing that he had sounded a bit more forceful than he'd intended. "You are a single young woman. A beautiful young woman, at that. It would be dangerous for you to walk back alone."

"Then you'll come with me?"

He sighed. "Christine, if you are seen with me, we are both as good as dead."

"Well, if I cannot catch a coach and I cannot walk back, then what am I to do?"

Erik paused, a thought forming in his mind. Christine would not like it, but… "You could stay here for the night."

Christine's face fell. "Oh…That's very kind of you, Erik, but I really don't think I should…"

She looked slightly paler than usual, slightly frightened. He knew that it was not himself that she feared so much as the fact that he was a man with a man's desires. To be quite honest, he was a bit frightened at the thought himself. Could he truly restrain himself through the long hours of the night, knowing that she was only a few feet away? He shook his head. No, he would not – _could not_ – force himself on her no matter how much he desired her. He loved her too much for that.

"Do not worry, Christine. I will not do anything untoward, nor detain you any longer than necessary. You may return home first thing tomorrow morning."

"But Madame Giry – "

"She knows that you are here, correct?"

"Yes…"

"And she knows that I am here, as well. I do not think she will send out a search party if you are gone for one night."

Christine frowned, looking slightly irritated. "Do I even get a choice in the matter?"

Erik winced. "Christine, you are my…friend…" The word seemed foreign on his tongue. "Not my prisoner. You are free to go and come as you wish. I am simply trying to keep you safe."

She thought for a moment. Perhaps it would be possible for her to stay in her old dorm room upstairs. Then again, if it looked anything like the rest of the place...The girl looked down sheepishly, her cheeks flushed pink. "Where…where would you sleep?"

"_You_ may sleep on the bed. I will sleep on the floor in the storage room."

"Oh, no!" Christine shook her head. "I am the one intruding on your hospitality. I will sleep on the floor."

"I won't hear of it!"

"But – "

"Christine, believe me when I tell you that I have slept in _much_ worse conditions in my life. One more night on the floor will not kill me."

She bit her lip. _What would Raoul think?_

Erik noticed her discomfort. "You said before that you wished for me to trust you, but if I am to feel at ease with you, Christine, you must also trust me."

Christine took a deep breath. "Alright. I'll stay."

Erik softly draped his cape over Christine's sleeping form and pulled the cord to close the black lace curtains surrounding the bed. Taking one last glance, he turned and, sighing, walked toward the storage room, blowing out the last of the candles on his way. He didn't need a candle to find his way in the dark. He had been living in the dungeons of the opera house for nearly twenty years and had designed the layout of his underground home himself. He knew every crack and crevice of this place by heart.

Arriving in the storage room, he shoved a few boxes aside and sat down on the cold stone floor, removing his shoes and stockings. Next came the mask. He hated to take it off, even now in the darkness when no one could see, because it served as a reminder of what lay underneath. He could pretend all day long that he was normal, that he was a handsome, roguish opera ghost to be feared and respected, but at the end of the day, the illusion broke down and he was once again just Erik, the freak with a face not even his mother could love, the frightened little boy who, in a moment of fear and anger, had killed his master and so locked himself into a lifetime of crimes he'd rather not remember. The circus master had deserved it, perhaps, but many of the others had not. They had been innocent bystanders who, as Christine put it, had been "in the wrong place at the wrong time."

_But I had no other choice, didn't I?_ The thought of having blood on his hands had never bothered him much before, but tonight for some reason, it weighed heavy on his mind. _Why would Christine ever choose me, a murderer, over someone like_ him_?_

He shook the thoughts from his head and carefully set the mask on one of the boxes where it would be easily within reach but not at risk of being stepped on should he need to get up in the night.

At last, the wig came off. Ordinarily, he would have set it on one of the model heads he kept so as to keep its shape and prevent it from being unnecessarily mussed, but tonight he simply laid it near the mask. He supposed he could have slept with it on – perhaps he should have with Christine here – but it was itchy and uncomfortable, and he could only imagine what a mess it would be in the morning if he slept on it. Having completed the nightly ritual, he ran his fingers through his hair. It was greasy and sticking up at odd angles, and he was thankful that he could not see what he looked like at the moment – even more thankful that Christine could not see!

Finally, he lowered himself to the floor, folding his arms beneath his head so that he was staring up at the ceiling – well, actually, the _floor_ – of the opera house. The floor was cold and hard beneath his back, the bricks uneven and damp with an earthy smell. Already he had likely soiled the back of his light cotton shirt, the pure white fabric streaked brown and green from the filth that seeped into the cracks of the floor from the ground beneath. Still, it was not the worst place he had ever slept…At least this time he was not in cage, the cold steel bars closing in around him as he'd huddled in the straw like an animal. No, this time he was willingly on the floor. This time, he was doing it for Christine. Knowing that she was just on the other side of the wall was both a comfort and a distraction. She was so close, and yet at the same time so very far away, just out of his reach, just out of his arms. It was enough to drive a man insane! Sighing, he rolled onto his side and closed his eyes, allowing his mind to wander over the possibilities of a future he knew he could never have. There was very little chance he'd be getting any sleep tonight.

_ The minister's dark robes rustled as he turned to face the accused, jabbing a long, bony finger in the boy's direction._

_ "You, Master Erik, have been accused of MURDER!" His booming voice echoed through the cathedral, taunting the child. "MURDER!...Murder!...murder!"_

_ The young Erik cowered under the robed man's gaze. "I-I didn't mean to…I-it was an accident!"_

_ He felt a sharp sting in his left cheek as the back of the clergyman's hand connected with his face, sending him staggering backwards. "Insolent boy! Do not speak unless spoken to! Is that understood?"_

_ The five year-old raised a hand to his cheek, rubbing the spot where the man's ring had hit his cheekbone and nodded solemnly, his vision blurring with tears._

_ "Witnesses report," the steel-haired man continued, "that you killed the man merely by looking into his eyes. We had a word for that back in my day – WITCHCRAFT!" He stepped forward, the orange light of the fire reflecting the malice in his cold, blue eyes. "Do you know, Erik, what happens to witches?"_

_ The child shook his head, eyes wide with fear._

_ Ripping the poorly made cloth mask from the boy's face, he threw it into the flames. "Witches BURN!" _

_ Erik scrambled to cover his face, stumbling into a deacon who had been watching the proceeding with disapproval but had, thus far, remained silent. Terrified of the repercussions of his mistake, he backed up, tripping over the stairs that led to the altar and landing at the bottom with a sickening thud. The child made no move to get up but curled into a tight ball, wrapping his arms around his knees and ducking his head against his chest, weeping softly._

_ "Get up," the minister ordered. When the boy did not respond, he stomped down the stairs and grabbed the child by the arm, yanking him to his feet. "I said GET UP, you little demon!"_

_ "ENOUGH!" The deacon's voice echoed off the church walls. Gathering the frightened young Erik into his arms, he glared at the man in front of him. "Father Destler, this cannot continue! Can't you see the poor boy is frightened out of his mind?"_

_ The minister shook a weathered finger at the child's face. "He bares the mark of the Devil! He has killed a man without even touching him. There is but one explanation – SORCERY!"_

_ "Your methods are outdated, Father. The last supposed witch in France was destroyed nearly a hundred years ago! _[1]_ Such foolish belief in superstition and twisted interpretation of the Word is what drives men from the church! Monsieur du Pre was an old man. The child's deformity merely startled him, and his poor old heart couldn't take it. Do not blame the boy for your mistakes!"_

_ "She seduced me with her siren's call! The woman is a sorceress, and I will have her burn for her crimes!"_

_ "You have no proof of that."_

_ "She confessed!"_

_ "Because you threatened her!"_

_ "SILENCE!" Father Destler narrowed his eyes. "Hold your tongue or I will have you excommunicated for defying the work of God!"_

_ "This is not the work of God! This is MURDER!"_

_ "An eye for an eye…"_

_ "You heard the child himself! He had no intentions of harming the old man. Chastise him if you must, but do not take the life of your own – "_

_ "That _thing_ is the child of SATAN!" The priest's face had gone purple with rage._

_ "Do you truly wish to die with the blood of a child – any child – on your hands, Father?"_

_ For a moment, the robed man did not respond. At long last, he sighed. "There is a travelling gypsy circus in town. I'm certain they would be more than happy to add him to their…collection…You will take him into town tomorrow."_

_ "But, Father, I – "_

_ "It's either the gypsies or the flames!" _

_ The deacon clenched his jaw. "I will not see this boy die for a crime he did not commit."_

_ "Very well. You will leave at the first light of dawn. Do not let anyone see you. Make it look like he escaped."_

_ The deacon turned to leave, his arm still wrapped around the frightened child, when he felt a hand grip his shoulder._

_ "Not yet." The minister glared at the child. "Come, Erik." _

_The boy hesitated, clinging to the deacon. _

"_COME!" _

_Reluctantly, the child obeyed, releasing his grip on the deacon and reaching for the leathery hand of the minister, who grabbed the boy by the wrist and began dragging him to the door. _

"_It is time for your punishment." Opening the door, he flung the child into the street where a crowd of spectators had gathered to await the priest's decision, gasping and whispering at the sight of the boy's face. Facing the crowd, he produced a whip and raised his hand for silence. When the crowd had hushed, he spoke in a loud, booming voice. "This boy has been found guilty of murder and sorcery, the penalty for which is DEATH! His mother has confessed to consorting with Satan. Tomorrow they shall burn at the stake!" The audience cheered, eager for violence, eager for blood. The priest looked down at the child. "Remove your shirt, boy." As the five year-old was stripped of his clothing, he raised the whip high over his head. "Let this be a lesson to you all! This is what becomes of those who dare to defy the Word of God!"_

_The leather sliced through the air with perfect precision. Erik hissed in pain as the whip bit into his tender skin, leaving an angry red welt in its wake. _

_The priest raised the whip again. "Behold the punishment of the wicked!"_

_Erik screamed._

"_Behold the fate of those who sin!" The whip came down a third time._

_The boy was sobbing._

"_Behold the DEVIL'S CHILD!"_

_The beating continued until he was too weak to stand, tears streaming down his face and blood running down his back. "I'm sorry," he cried brokenly. "I'm sorry! I didn't mean to hurt that man. What did I do wrong?"_

_The priest's face darkened as he turned to leave. "You were born."_

"Erik?"

Someone was shaking him, but he couldn't tell who it was. He was drenched in sweat and choking on his tears. He felt nauseated from the pain, dizzy from the loss of blood.

"Erik?"

Perhaps it was an angel calling his name. Perhaps he had died from the beating and Father Destler had been wrong about him being the Devil's Child. But if this was heaven, why did he still feel so awful?

"Erik, wake up!"

His eyes flew open to reveal a young woman with copper brown curls, a look of concern in her eyes and a candle in one hand. Instinctively, his hand flew to his face, and he scrambled to his feet, backing into a corner and snarling like a wild animal.

"Erik, it's alright, now. No one is going to hurt you."

He saw her hand coming for his arm and flinched. He had been expecting the girl to hit him, but her touch was surprisingly gentle.

"It's just me…Christine."

"Christine…" Suddenly, he was back in the present. The stains on his back were from dirt, not blood. He was on the floor of his storage room beneath the opera house, not on the streets of Nord. Panting heavily, he closed his eyes. "Go back to bed, Christine."

"Are you sure you're alright? I heard screaming, and – "

"I'm fine!" he snapped.

"Perhaps I could make you some tea or something to help you sleep?"

Erik looked perturbed, his right hand still shielding his face. "_Good night_, Christine!"

She stood to leave, smiling sadly. "Good night, Erik. I hope you're feeling better in the morning."

It was cold. Horribly, unbearably cold. Erik shivered as he stepped out onto the roof, his wet shirt clinging to his skin and doing very little to block the icy blast of wind from the North. A light snow had fallen during the night, but now the sky was clear, the full moon's light making the snow glitter like diamonds that put the pinpricks of light in the heavens to shame. His breath came in tiny puffs of warm mist, swirling and vanishing within a matter of seconds. He would have loved to admire the beauty of the night if it had not been so frigid. Already his fingers were numb, but he made no attempt to warm them. Soon, he would lose the feeling in his toes, too. Gradually, the icy winter air would consume him, spreading up his arms and legs until at last he'd be chilled to the core, miserably cold, blissfully cold. He would become so cold that he could no longer feel at all, so cold that he could think of nothing but warmth, his mind becoming as numb as the rest of his body. Cold was a great healer, it turned out. Not just for physical injuries but for emotional ones, as well. He had discovered this trick as a boy during his first winter in a cage, shirtless. His owners had thought they were punishing him, but in truth, they had given him relief. The cold had been agonizing, but the pain had disappeared. Cold, he decided, was much easier to deal with than pain. He could feel the numbness coming, the blissful state of unawareness which made him immune to the memories that clung to him like garments, but it wasn't quite cold enough yet. He could still feel the sting of the whip in his mind. Taking another step forward, he suddenly slipped on a patch of ice and, reeling, tumbled backwards, landing on his back with enough force to knock the wind from his lungs. And suddenly, he was a little boy again in the cathedral, looking up into the cold, unfeeling eyes of the priest from the bottom of the stairs. This time, he did not remain on the ground. This time, he would fight back. Cursing as he stood, he glared at the heavens, hurling insults at the sky.

"Do You find that amusing?" he screamed. "Do You enjoy watching Your creation suffer?" He was panting hard, shaking with cold and uncontrolled rage. He packed a wad of snow and threw it with all his might at an unseen enemy. "_YOU_ MADE ME THIS WAY! How can You hate me for that?" Tears of anger, of hatred and bitterness were streaming down his cheeks. "Where were You when I was rotting away in that cage?" He kicked a small snowdrift, sending a shower of white powdery flakes into the air. "Where were You when I cried out to You every night, begging for mercy, begging for love? Where were You when I was mocked and beaten and spat upon? Where were You? WHERE WERE YOU?"

Vaguely he recalled a story he'd once heard of another Man who had suffered much the same. He had taken His undeserved punishment quietly, condemned for being the Son of God. Erik had responded to his undeserved punishment with revenge, condemned for being the son of Satan. And a son of Satan he surely must have been, for he could not bear to think that _that_ man was his father.

"I am NOT a god like You! I am not an angel, nor hardly even a man by society's standards. How can You expect me to love in spite of such hatred? If You were truly a merciful and loving God, You would have let me die!"

He turned his head upwards, looking up to the sky, arms open wide. "KILL ME!" It was more of a plea than a taunt. "KILL ME! If You hate me, then You may take pleasure in sending me to Hell, and if You love me, then You may take pleasure in giving me release. Only kill me, please." He fell to his knees, legs giving way beneath him from the numbness of the cold. "Oh, God!" He choked back a sob. "God, have mercy on me. God help me…"

The cold was beginning to seep in. He could feel the deadness of his limbs creeping slowly into his chest, into his mind. It wouldn't be long now. Taking a seat in the snow, he huddled against the wall, curling into a little ball, his knees hugged tightly against his chest. Willingly, he gave in as cold and fatigue worked their magic, the harsh winter wind whispering a lullaby as it swept the streets of Paris. His eyelids grew heavy, and at long last, he fell into a deep and dreamless sleep. Had he taken the time to look where he had fallen, he might have noticed the large angel statue standing guard over his sleeping form, her arms held high in heavenly entreaty, her wings spread wide in the wind.

[1] The last recorded witch trial and legal witch lynching in France occurred around 1745, but a few sporadic witch-hunts may have taken place until as late as the 1830s when it was reported that a woman in Nord was burned for being a sorceress. Erik's backstory is based very loosely on this incident, his mother being the supposed witch. Father Destler is based on Judge Frollo from _The Huntchback of Notre Dame _(Disney movie version), though their stories are separated by hundreds of years. I realize that witch-hunts were highly uncommon by the 1800s, but I felt that, for this particular story, the situation was appropriate.


	6. True Beauty

**Chapter Six: True Beauty**

Christine drew a sharp intake of breath as she felt a hand come to rest on her shoulder. Whirling around to face the intruder, she put a hand to her heart and laughed softly as she realized her mistake. "Oh, Erik! You startled me."

Having donned the mask and wig again, he bore little resemblance to the man she had seen the night before. If she hadn't known better, she would have thought them two entirely different men.

"Did you sleep well?" he asked.

"Oh, yes. It was quite nice…I'm sorry for my intrusion last night. I was worried about you, and –"

"No, I am the one who should be apologizing. Please forgive my behavior…I was…not myself."

Actually, he _had_ been himself, he thought. Very much so. He had shown her a part of himself that he had done his best to hide away from the all the world, a part of his past that he'd rather forget. She had caught a glimpse of the wide-eyed feral boy that he had once been…and yet, she had not been afraid.

"It's alright…I know how real dreams can be…I used to have horrible nightmares about my father's death. I would always wake up screaming."

"I know," he said quietly.

The girl smiled wistfully. "You used to sing me to sleep, remember? Your voice was always so beautiful…" Shaking her head, she brought herself back to the present. She walked over to the small table in the kitchen, pulling out a chair. "I took the liberty of preparing breakfast. I hope you don't mind…"

Erik stared at the food on the table, his mouth slightly agape. His eyes were filled with an emotion she couldn't quite place.

"Erik…?"

He shook his head. "I'm sorry. I'm afraid I'm not accustomed to having someone prepare meals for me."

"Well, then, you shall have to appraise my cooking skills, though I'm afraid I'm not as good as you." She smiled. "Come." She reached for his hand but instantly drew back as though she had touched the cold, deadened fingers of a corpse. For the first time, now, she noticed his lips were tinged slightly blue, his skin a sickly yellow, as if all of the blood had been drained from him. She lifted a hand to his cheek, but it was as if she were caressing the face of a marble statue rather than the warm face of a man. "My goodness, Erik, you're freezing! What happened?"

He looked down, suddenly uncomfortable with meeting her gaze. "It's nothing, Christine. I went out for a short walk on the roof last night. That is all."

Christine was slowly beginning to understand. She looked up into his eyes. "You were out there all night, weren't you?" she whispered.

"The cold...helps," he attempted to explain. "It numbs the mind as well as the body."

"Why didn't you tell me? What were you thinking, going out there in such light clothing? You could become horribly ill! I don't understand why you would do such a thing to yourself…"

Erik closed his eyes, moderately irritated with her for reprimanding his only form of relief. _Of course_ she didn't understand! How could she? "That is precisely why I did not tell you," he countered.

She reached for his shoulder. "Please don't be angry. I am only concerned for your sake."

Erik sighed. "I know. But your concern, though appreciated, is unnecessary. I shall be fine."

Christine eyed him suspiciously. She did not quite believe him, yet she did not wish to begin another argument, so she allowed the subject to drop. "Come along, then," she said, taking his hand. This time she did not draw back but interlaced her fingers with his own. "Breakfast is getting cold."

Christine dipped a rag into the soapy bucket of water and began scrubbing the plate in front of her, humming softly as she worked. As future wife of the Vicomte de Changy, she supposed she would soon have a maid doing such menial tasks for her, but she did not mind doing the chore herself. After they had finished eating, Christine had started to clear away the dishes only to have Erik insist that he do the cleaning since she was, after all, his guest. She had persisted, however, saying that because she had intruded upon his hospitality and taken the bed instead of the floor, it was the least she could do. He eventually relented on the condition that he do something for her in return and was currently fulfilling his end of the bargain. Christine closed her eyes and sighed contentedly, listening to the soft melody of the Swedish lullaby wash over her, his deep, strong voice resonating with the same heartfelt adoration and love she'd once heard in her father's voice, but there were hints of something more. Something he dared not speak aloud again but knew that she could sense. Music was a language they both understood.

_I walk alone and wander here,_

_Looking for my friend._

_I walk alone and wander here,_

_Looking for my friend._

_Look, I meet her here,_

_She who holds my heart so dear._

_Say if you will dance with me_

_As you did before._

_Alone I walk on paths I know,_

_Looking for a friendly face._

_Alone I walk on paths I know, _

_Looking for a friendly face._

_I look to meet her once again,_

_The one whose love is in my heart._

_I want to see you once again,_

_And dance again with you, my love. _[1]

He was just beginning to sing the next verse when he was suddenly interrupted by a violent fit of coughing. Christine immediately left the dishes and rushed to his side.

"Erik, are you alright?"

Recovering himself, he felt the heat rise to his cheeks, embarrassed by his outburst. "I'm fine, Christine. It is only a cough."

She worriedly pressed a hand to his damp forehead. She had a feeling his face was flushed with more than embarrassment. "You're getting sick."

"I have survived much worse, I assure you. It will be gone in a few days' time."

"Perhaps I should stay a bit longer until you are well."  
>"Do not trouble yourself. I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself," he insisted. Though he would have loved to have her stay a few days longer, he knew it would only make things more difficult when the time came for her to leave.<p>

"I know, but – "

"I'm not going to die from a little cough, Christine."

The words stung more than she knew he'd intended, but she could not stop herself from lashing out. "Fine! If you wish to kill yourself, Erik, then go ahead, but do not expect me to sit back and act as though I do not care!"

She whirled away, allowing the tears she'd been holding back to flow. She felt his hand on her shoulder, but she did not turn to look at him.

"Forgive me, Christine. I did not mean to upset you so."

Christine swallowed back the lump in her throat and nodded, reminding herself that he did not know the circumstances of her father's death. She took a deep breath. "One winter shortly after our arrival in Paris, my father fell ill. It started out as just a cough, but…but then it got worse. For months on end, he tried to convince me that it was only a cough, that he did not need a doctor because he knew we couldn't afford one, and I, being the foolish, naïve little girl that I was, believed him." Her lips trembled. "Perhaps if I had spoken up sooner, he would still be alive…" Finally, she faced him. "Please, Erik. I have already lost one of the men that I lo–" She caught herself before it was too late. "…That I care about. I do not wish to lose you, as well."

"I am truly sorry, Christine. I didn't realize…"

She shook her head. "You could not have known."

Erik sighed. He would regret this later. "You are always welcome in my home. You may stay as long as you wish."

Christine sat the cup of steaming hot tea on the table before him. The sassafras blend with sugar and honey would hopefully relieve the cough. There was little she could do for the other symptoms, but having a doctor examine him would be too much of a risk. She hoped and prayed it was only a bad cold and not the dreaded influenza. She gently pushed the cup toward him as he started coughing again. "Here. This should help."

"Thank you," he whispered. His usual melodic baritone voice had become hoarse and scratchy from all of the coughing. He took a tentative sip, the warm liquid soothing his throat, which burned like the parched sands of a desert. He closed his eyes, enjoying a brief moment of relief as the tea lingered in his throat. He hadn't been this sick in many years. It hurt to swallow. It hurt to breathe. It hurt to move. Every muscle in his body ached. Everything that came into contact with his burning skin stung. If hell was worse than this, he thought, he certainly didn't want to spend eternity there. He returned the cup to the saucer and cradled his throbbing head in his hands, hoping to make the nauseating dizziness go away.

"Erik, I know you're not feeling well, but please try to eat something. You've barely touched your dinner."

"Forgive me." His words were somewhat distorted from his inability to breathe through his nose. He sniffed. "I'm afraid I have no appetite tonight."

"Come, then. Let's get you to bed."

He tried not to wince at the pinpricks of pain that shot up his arm where her fingers grazed his skin. Though he knew her touch was soft, it felt as though he was being stabbed by a thousand needles. Reluctantly, he pushed away from the table and steadied himself as Christine tried to help him stand. His head swam with the sudden change in position, and he gagged, fighting back the wave of nausea that had suddenly arisen. He took a few slow, deep breaths to calm the urge to vomit. He hated that Christine had to see him in such a state. If he looked even half as bad as he felt, he was certain he was hideous even _with_ the mask, which he found increasingly loathsome. Already he had given up on the wig. It was simply too hot to wear in his fevered state. The mask, on the other hand, was not only uncomfortable but impractical. Trying to blow his nose with a mask on was not a pleasant experience, and quite frankly, it embarrassed him. But he simply could not bring himself to remove the mask in her presence. True, she had seen him that way more than once, but he had no intentions of her ever seeing him that way again.

"Are you alright?" The angelic voice broke through his thoughts.

"I'm fine." Well, "fine" was a bit of an overstatement.

"Do you think you can walk over to the bed?"

"I…don't know," he admitted.

Wrapping his arm around her shoulder for support, he took a few shaky steps forward before having to stop. He had only walked about ten feet and already he felt as though he had just finished running a marathon. He groaned. The bed seemed so…far…away… He took another half-hearted step before realizing that they were headed not to the storage room but to the swan bed.

"Christine," he protested weakly, "that is not my bed."

"For tonight it is."

"But – "

"Erik, you're sick. Sleeping on the cold floor is not going to help that. I'll find somewhere else to sleep." He opened his mouth to protest, but she cut him off. "And you're in no condition to argue, so don't try to tell me otherwise. It will just be for a few days, and then you can go back to sleeping on the floor until your heart is content."

He offered her a weak smile. "_Oui_, Madamoiselle."

Reaching the bed, he fairly collapsed onto the cushions and, closing his eyes, fell asleep almost immediately. Christine, having safely delivered him to the bed, returned briefly to the kitchen where she proceeded to clean the dishes and prepared a bucket of cool water, which along with a rag and a chair, she brought to the bedside. She sighed as she took her seat, dipping the rag into the bucket and wringing it out before bringing the cool cloth to his face. She hummed as she worked, recalling the melody of the Swedish lullaby he had sung for her two days before.

_I look to meet him once again, _

_The one whose love is in my heart._

_I want to see you once again,_

_And dance again with you, my love._

She smiled softly at his sleeping figure. He looked so peaceful in his sleep, so innocent and harmless, as if the years of hatred and isolation had been washed away, leaving only the man she saw before her. Gone was the Opera Ghost, the Phantom, with his murderous and wicked ways. Gone was the Angel of Music, his song of sweet deception weaving a web of lies. Now there was only Erik. He was not as suave and debonair as the Phantom, nor as hauntingly seductive as the Angel of Music. In fact, he was rather plain, and yet he was not unattractive. Now, as she watched him sleep, she realized that she had never truly _looked_ at him before. She had been too blinded by first his charm and then his anger to see the man that lay beneath. Now she looked at him with opened eyes and saw that he was beautiful. Not unrealistically handsome as he had been as the Phantom, but naturally attractive. She noticed a lock of his hair – that honey-golden hair that didn't quite cover the right side of his head – draped across his damp brow and gently brushed it aside. His face was not so ugly. Certainly not the side that she could see, anyway. But there was still the matter of the mask. She wondered whether the right side of his face might not seem so horrid now that it was not contorted in anger or grief. Her fingers slid to edge of the mask, the cool porcelain a stark contrast against his burning skin. But then she stopped. Over the past few days the former Phantom had shown himself to be quite the gentleman. When she had first spent the night in the opera house, she had trusted him to preserve her virtue, and despite any feelings he may have had to the contrary, he had never taken advantage of her. This was his home, his sanctuary, and he had allowed her to stay here when she had nowhere else to go. Twice she had broken his trust, had exposed a part of him that he was not yet ready to show the world. What kind of person would she be to break that trust now, as he slept, sick with fever and barely able to stand? No, he was not entirely Erik yet. There was still that one part of him that he refused to show. It saddened her that after all they had been through, he still did not trust her not to jeer at or be disgusted by him. Perhaps someday he would be willing, and when that day came, she would be able to appreciate him – all of him – for who he was, but until then, she was satisfied just knowing that there was, indeed, a _man_ behind the mask. Not a ghost. Not an angel. Just a perfectly imperfect beautiful man.

Erik lifted the handkerchief to his nose and sneezed for what must have been the hundredth time that day. On the whole he was feeling much better. Two days of sleeping in a real bed and receiving Christine's constant care had made a large improvement in his condition. He no longer ached or burned as he had before, but while the fever had declined, the coughing and sneezing had only gotten worse. Christine had assured him that that was a good sign that he was nearly over the sickness, but Erik wasn't so sure. He almost preferred the aching to the constant embarrassment of wiping snot from his nose and mask. He could only imagine how disgusted she must be. He lay back down and rested his head against the pillow.

"Ugh," he sighed. "How much longer am I to endure this? I cannot breathe! And this cursed mask is certainly not helping!" Oh, how he loathed that mask right now. He wanted to rip it off his face and throw it across the room. But, of course, that couldn't happen.

Christine hesitated. "You could…take it off…"

"No."

"But if you cannot breathe, then – "

Erik was suddenly angry. "Why do you insist on humiliating me? Can you not see that I am wretched enough as it is?"

"Why do _you_ insist on making yourself miserable? Do you still believe that I am so superficial and insensitive as to mock you, Erik? Do you wish to keep it on because you are afraid of what_ I_ will see or because you are afraid of what _you_ will see when at last it is removed? Who are you hiding from, Erik – the world or yourself?" She came to the side of the bed and rested her hand on his. "No one can ever love you for who you are unless you are willing to show them, Erik."

Erik closed his eyes. If only she knew how horribly it frightened him for his face to be seen. His face had killed a man – _his face!_ How could he bare to show it again? "You don't understand what it's like…what I've been through… The laughing, the gawking… The mask is my only refuge, my sanctuary. It makes me feel…safe."

"Is it a sanctuary or a prison, which has barred you from the world? True beauty lies in a man's heart, not his outward appearance."

He gave a half-hearted laugh. "Then you must find me truly repulsive. Did you not say yourself that my soul has been distorted even more so than my face?"

Christine took a deep breath. "At one time I believed that to be true, but a man's heart is subject to change… He has made all things beautiful in His time – including you, Erik." Slowly, she brought her hands to his face, cradling his cheeks between her palms.

Erik froze.

Her fingers traced the edge of the mask but made no attempt to remove it. "May I?"

He was surprised by her request. Most who had seen his face did not dare to look at it any more than necessary. Why would she, who had seen his monstrosity not once but twice, ask to see it again? Perhaps she was drawn to his deformity for the same reason that the spectators had come to see him as the Devil's Child…He was a freak, an abomination, and oddity on display like an item at a curio shop…Yet she had never treated him as _they_ had. She had a kind and loving heart, not their sick sense of humor. It baffled him. He'd had plenty of people tell him to put the mask_ on_. A few times someone had torn it off without asking, either out of innocent curiosity or intentional malice. But no one had ever asked him for permission to remove his mask. Slowly, he nodded, swallowing back the intense fear that had gripped his chest and closing his eyes.

"You may."

The soft, cool tips of her fingers slipped gently beneath the mask. Slowly, carefully, she peeled it back and placed it to the side. The moment the cool air touched his exposed face, he tensed. Certainly, it was a relief to have the mask off, but what of Christine? He opened his eyes to see her staring down at him with a strange expression he could not read. It was not quite pity, nor was it disgust, but he could not seem to place the emotion. He looked away in shame.

"Am I as hideous as you remember?" he spat.

The girl examined his face, running her fingers over the deformed flesh, from his naked scalp to his smooth chin. The skin was red and lumpy, pocked with pits and clammy with sweat. The skin below his eye was strangely stretched so that his right eye remained open wider than his left. Before, she might have gasped at the sight, but now she softly smiled. He had chosen to trust her, to share with her a part of him he had never willingly shared with anyone else. Now, as she looked into his eyes, there was neither hatred nor wicked desire to distort his features, and though they were not necessarily handsome, they were not nearly as horrible as she had once thought.

"No," she murmured softly.

The look in her tear-filled eyes was warm and inviting, unlike anything he had ever experienced before. _Could it be…love…? _

She leaned down, bringing her lips close to his right ear, her cheek slightly brushing against his face. "You are perfect," she whispered.

Kinder words had never been spoken to him, and Erik could not contain his emotion. Against his will, a tear slipped down his left cheek, and suddenly her lips were on his face, gently kissing away the tear, her warm breath tickling his cheek. He drew a sharp intake of breath, surprised by her action. Another tear slipped free, this time on his right, and without hesitation, she kissed it as well. Now he began openly weeping. She had kissed him on the cheek! On the very deformity that his own mother could not bear to see. As the tears continued to fall, she treated each wet track the same, moving in a line across his face until at last she came to his lips. Closing her eyes, she pressed her own soft, full lips against his. He broke down completely. Before, she acted out of pity, not passion. Before, she had pretended to love him so that her true love might go free. This time, he hadn't forced her affections. This time, there was no pity in her gaze. She had no reason to kiss him and yet…she had done so of her own free will. Without his wig, without his mask, with a runny nose and tears streaming down his face, she had kissed him.

He returned the kiss, hungrily, passionately. He felt her fingers run through his hair and placed his own hand behind her head, his fingers tangling in her silky curls. He was nearly out of breath, unable to breathe through his nose from the cold or his mouth from her incessant kisses, but he couldn't have cared less. If her sweet lips were the ones to draw the last breath from his lungs, he would certainly die a happy man. His prayers had at last been answered. He finally knew what it was to be loved.

[1] This song is actually a slightly modified version of a real traditional Swedish lullaby called "I Walk Alone and Wander Here." I thought it fit Erik & Christine perfectly :)


	7. The Duel

**Chapter Seven: The Duel**

Meg drew back the pink satin curtains of her second-story window and sighed. It had been several days since she'd last seen her best friend, and there was still no sign of her. Neither she nor her mother had spoken about why Christine had not returned from the opera house. They both knew the answer to that question. Madame Giry did not seem worried in the least, but after nearly four nights had passed without word from Christine, Meg was becoming anxious. Generally, she trusted her mother's opinion, but she was finding it harder and harder to remain silent as thoughts of all the horrible things that could have possibly happened to Christine raced through her mind. She felt something brush against her leg and looked down to see the little gray cat rubbing her face against her mistress. She stooped to pet the cat.

"Oh, Élise, will she ever come home? What if something terrible has happened to her? What if she is being held against her will?"

"Meg Giry, I'm ashamed of you."

Meg looked up to see her mother standing in the doorway. She sighed. "I'm sorry, _Maman_, but I can't help but worry. She is like a sister to me…I don't know what I would do if something happened to her."

"And she is as a second daughter to me. I would not have allowed her to go back if I thought that she was in any danger."

"Perhaps we should send out a search party…"

"And risk exposing him to the police? Meg, you know what they will do if they find out that he is still alive!"

"So you would protect him over your own adopted daughter? Would you choose him over me as well, _Maman_?"

"Hold your tongue, girl! You know not of what you speak. I am not choosing one over the other. I am simply doing what I think is best for the both of them – giving them some privacy to work things out for themselves."

"But _Maman_, he is a wanted man, a murderer! How do you know that he has not harmed her?"

"Hush, child. You do not know him as I do. No harm will come to Christine as long as she is with him. I am certain of it. Give it a little more time. If she is not back by the end of the week, I shall go and fetch her myself." The ballet mistress wrapped her arm around her daughter and planted a soft kiss on her head. "Now stop worrying so much and get some rest. It is late."

"Yes, _Maman_."

"Goodnight, _ma fille_."

"Goodnight."

Meg watched as her mother left the room, closing the door behind her. She turned back to the window, hoping to catch a glimpse of an approaching stagecoach in the soft moonlight. At long last, she closed the curtains and crawled into her bed, blowing out the candle on her bedside table. In the sliver of moonlight that came through the curtains, she could just make out the furry form of Élise curled up at the foot of her bed. Staring up into the darkness, Meg made a decision. If her mother did not care about what happened to Christine, she would go to someone who did. Tomorrow she would pay a visit to the Vicomte de Changy.

Meg nervously lifted the doorknocker on the front door of the de Changy mansion. She gave three short, sharp raps and then stood back to wait. Presently, a short, plump woman in her mid sixties opened the door. She wore a lacy white apron over a simple black dress and large, round spectacles that seemed too big for her chubby little face. Her silver-gray hair was plaited and twisted up into a small bun on the top of her head. She peered up at the girl, squinting at first, as though she could not quite see the visitor's face. After a moment, she smiled.

"Well, hello, dearie. Sorry if I seemed to stare. I'm afraid my eyesight isn't what it used to be." Her accent was a bit strange, as though she were not a native French speaker. "What brings you to the de Changy House this morning?"

Meg returned the smile. She had never been to a nobleman's estate before, and she had been rather concerned that she would be turned away or embarrass herself by not knowing the proper etiquette, but the maid's informal, grandmotherly demeanor put her at ease. "I am Meg Giry, daughter of Madame Antoinette Giry, the ballet mistress of the Paris Opera House."

"Well, now, I heard it there was a horrible fire there a few weeks ago. Something about a chandelier crash… Some folks were blaming it on a ghost! Now, can you believe that? Grown men running the opera house blaming their mistakes on some figment of the imagination, now really! Personally, I think the managers should really be more careful about keeping up with the safety regulations, if you know what I mean. Good to see you made it out alright, though."

"Yes…" Meg decided against correcting the woman's mistaken assumptions. _For a figment of the imagination, he's certainly caused a lot of trouble. _

"Are you here to see the vicomte? Is he expecting you?"

The woman's questions brought her attention back to the problem at hand. "I am here to see the vicomte, but he does not know that I have come. I am a friend of Christine Daaé, his fiancé. I bring news of her."

"Miss Daaé, you say? She seemed to me a fine, sweet girl. Is she alright?"

"I…don't know," she answered honestly. "Please, tell the vicomte I must see him immediately."

"See me about what?" Both women looked up to see Raoul descending the stairs. "Lydia, who is this girl?"

Meg offered a small curtsey. "I am Meg Giry, monsieur, a friend of Christine's."

"Oh! Well, then, by all means come inside!" He turned briefly to the maid. "Lydia, prepare a bit of tea for our guest, please." The maid bobbed a curtsey and scuttled off as the vicomte returned his attention to Meg. "Christine has spoken quite highly of you. She is doing well, I trust?"

Meg frowned uncomfortably and bit her lower lip. "I have not heard from her in over four days."

Now it was Raoul's turn to frown. "Is she not staying with you and your mother?"

"She was but…I think…I think she may be in trouble."

"In trouble? Well, where is she?"

Meg sighed. "At the Paris Opera House."

"But the opera house was burned! Why would she go back when there is nothing left to see?"

Meg looked down, unable to meet his eyes. "She is with the Opera Ghost, monsieur."

Christine was the first to pull back from the kiss, panting heavily. Never had she felt such a rush of feelings, such exhilaration, as she had felt in that kiss. Never had she seen such deep and devoted love in someone's eyes. Not even when Raoul had proposed to her. _Raoul!_ Christine's eyes suddenly widened, and gasping, she put a hand to her mouth. _What on earth have I done?_

"Oh, Erik," she shook her head apologetically. "Erik, I'm so sorry!"

Erik felt his heart sink. _She regrets it_, he thought. _She regrets kissing me._

"I-I shouldn't have…I mean I can't…" She got up from the chair by the bedside and turned away, burying her face in her hands. "I am promised to another!"

Slowly he began to comprehend. _She doesn't regret kissing me...She regrets that she can't _be_ with me! She loves me…_ The realization was overwhelming. _She can't stay with me, but she loves me!_ Perhaps he should have been sad, but at the moment, he was too busy trying to wrap his head around the idea that she actually had feelings for him.

She felt a pair of warm hands on her shoulders. "Christine." He gently turned her so that she was facing him. "There is no need to apologize. I understand…"

She looked up tearfully and shook her head again. "I don't know what to say."

"You don't have to say anything. You have already told me everything I need to know." He pulled her into a soft embrace and pressed a gentle, chaste kiss to her forehead. "Thank you."

Christine wrapped her arms around him. "I never meant to hurt you," she said.

"You have not hurt me, Christine. If anything, you have made me stronger. You have given me a reason to believe again, a reason to hope. I know that you must go…I have always known that…But I want you to know that you have brought me greater joy than I have ever known, if only for a few moments of my life. I shall never forget what you have done for me, Christine."

Christine felt the hot tears slipping down her cheeks. "And I shall never forget you, Erik, _mon Ange_."

Suddenly, Erik tensed. She felt his arms tighten around her and looked up, concerned. He was staring off into the distance, but when she tried to follow his gaze she couldn't see anything out of the ordinary. "Erik?"

"Did you hear that?"

"Hear what?"

"Shhh…." he hissed.

Christine listened intently. At first, she didn't hear anything but then…There it was! Somewhere in the distance she heard the faint sound of footsteps echoing off the walls. She gasped. "Someone's coming!"

Grabbing her hand, Erik ran to the curtains that had once covered the mirror and shoved them aside, revealing a dark passageway. Holding her by the shoulders at arm's length, he paused, knowing that this would likely be the last chance he ever had to look into her eyes. "Go until you see a fork in the path. When you get there, take the left passage. It will lead you to the street that runs beside the opera house. You'll be safe there."

Christine was distraught. "You're not coming with me?"

"Christine I have told you before that if they see us together we are _both_ as good as dead. I am not willing to risk your life."

"If you stay here, they'll find you. You _know_ what they will do! Erik, please be sensible. Come back with me to Madame Giry's house. You can hide there until the danger has passed and – "

"I have spent my entire life in hiding, Christine – hiding from the world as well as myself. I have been a coward and a fool to think that I can run from my past. You showed me that I don't have to hide behind the mask anymore, Christine…and you were right. I cannot spend the rest of my life on the run, and I will not ask you or Madame Giry to put yourselves at risk for me anymore…so when they come for me, I will accept the consequences of my actions without fear. There will be no more hiding for me."

Christine was on the verge of tears. "Erik, they'll _kill_ you!"

"Then let me die knowing that I have done at least one good deed in saving you."

"Erik, I – "

The footsteps had grown louder, faster. They were running.

"You must go now, Christine. Hurry! Do not look back. Do not stop running until you have reached safety…And whatever happens, promise that you will not come back for me."

Christine hesitated.

"Promise me!"

She bowed her head in defeat. "I promise."

"Go." He gave her a gentle shove in the direction of the tunnel. "Go, now!"

Christine ran a few steps before turning to steal one last glance over her shoulder. "Erik?"

He paused mid-way in closing the curtain.

"I…" The words caught in her throat. Why couldn't she just say what she was thinking, what she was _feeling_? "I just wanted to say…be careful…"

The unspoken words hung heavy in the air between them. Erik knew what she had meant to say, but the fact that she could not bring herself to speak the words aloud pained him deeply. They stood there for a moment, staring into one another's eyes, trying to find the truth. But the footsteps were getting closer. Soon they would be to the edge of the lake. Soon they would find the underground lair. Christine offered him a small, apologetic smile, then turned and ran down the passage as fast as her legs would carry her, the silent words still echoing in her mind.

He waited until he could no longer see her, until her white dress was stained the inky black of the shadows and he could no longer make out her dark curls dancing against her shoulders, before he let the curtain fall. Another act in the opera of life came to an end as Christine's world was enveloped in darkness, and Erik turned to face his fate.

Christine ran until she was out of breath. With only the faint light of day from the end of the tunnel to guide her, she had stumbled quite a few times along the way and nearly twisted her ankle. Panting, she leaned against the moist stone wall and closed her eyes. _Why didn't I tell him? Why am I so afraid to admit the truth?_

"Psst! Christine! Christine is that you?"

Christine jumped at the sound of the voice coming from just ahead in the tunnel. In the dim light of the dungeons she could just see the silhouette of a young woman coming toward her. She squinted, trying to make out the details in the darkness. As the figure drew closer, she gasped. "Meg? What are you doing here?"

"I came to help you escape!"

"Escape? But I don't understand…How did you know the police were here?"

"Police? What police?" Meg craned her neck, trying to make out something behind her friend. "Where is the vicomte?"

Christine looked confused. "At home, I suppose…I haven't seen him since I left to visit you."

Meg frowned. "He is not with you, then?"

"No…Why should he be?"

"Because he came here with me to help you escape from the phantom!"

"The phantom?" Christine's eyes widened with horror as she realized the meaning of her friend's words. "Oh, Meg! There has been a terrible misunderstanding!"

"A misunderstanding? Christine, did he not hold you here against your will these past few days?"

"No! I remained here of my own free will. He has been nothing but good to me! Oh! I must go to him before it's too late!" Christine turned to leave, but stopped short when she felt her friend grab her arm.

"Christine wait! Think about what you are doing… The man is a wanted criminal! A murderer! I know how much you care for him, but he seems to exert some strange power over you…If you go back to him now, you may never leave. Raoul is a good man, Christine. And he loves you. Wouldn't you rather spend the rest of your life with a safe, kind-hearted man like him?"

"No." Christine surprised herself with her response. "I would rather spend the rest of my life with the man that I love."

Erik did not put on the mask. He did not reach for his sword, nor did he fashion a lasso. He simply stood by the water's edge and waited. This time he would not run. This time he would not hide. Perhaps he would still be hunted like a beast, but at least he would die like a man.

Hearing a splash in the direction of the main gate, he turned his attention to the intruder and was surprised to see not the police but the young Vicomte de Changy. The vicomte drew a sword from his belt.

"Put away your weapons, monsieur. I no longer have a quarrel with you." His voice, still a bit rough from the lingering effects of the cold, was not nearly as intimidating as he had hoped it would be.

"Where is she? What have you done with her?"

"Miss Daaé is on her way back to the Giry household as we speak. I have done nothing to harm her, of that I may assure you."

Raoul was now at the water's edge. He aimed the sword at the man's throat. "I don't believe that for a second."

Erik shrugged, surprisingly calm for someone whose life was being threatened. "Believe what you will, but it is the truth."

"Tell me where she is."

Erik was silent.

"_Tell me where she is_."

"I have already told you," he replied coolly. "It is not my fault that you refuse to believe me."

Raoul slashed the sword across his unmasked face, leaving a streak of crimson from the right part of his forehead to his left lower jaw. Erik's hands flew to his face. Cursing, he resisted the urge to strangle the boy for Christine's sake.

The vicomte remained in a defensive position. "Why should I believe that you would suddenly let her go after keeping her prisoner here for days?"

"If you _must_ know," Erik said through clenched teeth, "I have been in bed with a fever. Christine was kind enough to tend to me."

Raoul was incensed. "Fever was not the only thing you were in bed with, _was it_?" The vicomte was slowly backing his opponent toward the wall, his blade at his enemy's chest. There was a dangerous gleam in his eyes. "The only fever _you_ have experienced is a fever of passion for _my_ future wife!"

He raised the sword, preparing to strike, but the blade was met with a clang as Erik snatched up a heavy iron candle stand, holding his ground. Swinging the metal post like a club, Erik struck back, nearly knocking the vicomte over with the force of his blow. Raoul recovered quickly, hand still stinging from the vibrations of his sword, and swung his rapier to meet his opponent's weapon. They were slowly making their way back toward the water's edge, the clash of iron and steel ringing throughout the underground lair, reverberating off the walls so that it sounded more like an entire army in battle than two men in a duel. Wielding a much heavier weapon, Erik clearly had the upper hand, but he was tiring quickly, having not yet fully recovered his strength. The blood from the gash on his face was stinging his eyes, blurring his vision. Knowing that he couldn't maintain his advantage for long, he made one last effort to disarm his adversary. Swinging the pole with all of his might, he felt his opponent's arm give way. The sword clattered to the ground, and Erik promptly kicked it away. When Raoul moved to recover his weapon, Erik swung again. There was scream of pain as the metal base of the candle stand collided with the vicomte's left leg, and he staggered backwards, landing in the shallow water with a splash. Erik prepared to strike again, when suddenly he thought of Christine. Was not the boy acting out of love for Christine, too? Young and arrogant though her fiancé might have been, Erik found that he could not honestly fault the man for his actions without being a hypocrite. Slowly, he lowered the weapon and cast it aside, offering his fallen rival a hand up. The vicomte hesitated, then stretched out his own hand, begrudgingly accepting his enemy's assistance. When he was nearly standing, he suddenly staggered, reaching for his injured leg. Erik moved to steady him but stopped short. There was a glint of silver and before he could react, Raoul had the knife at his back, burying the blade in his flesh.

Roaring with pain, Erik stumbled backward, tripping over the discarded candle stand and landing flat on his back. The small blotch of scarlet that had appeared on his shirt was slowly expanding as the blood soaked through his clothing. Grimacing, he put a hand to his back and felt the warm, sticky liquid seep through his fingers. His breathing was harsh, irregular.

The vicomte raised the dagger high over his head, preparing to deal the final blow. "This is for Christine."

Erik squeezed his eyes shut, mumbling what little he remembered of the Lord's Prayer.

"Raoul, NO!"

Erik opened his eyes to see that Christine had flung herself upon him, putting herself between his chest and the blade. Breathing hard, she looked up into her intended's eyes, pleading.

Good heavens, but she was close! He could feel the warmth of her body against his, her chest rising and falling with each and every breath. If the situation had not been so desperate, he wasn't certain that he would have been able to control himself.

Raoul was incredulous. "_Christine?_"

"Raoul, please, don't kill him! He has done nothing to harm me, nor corrupted me in any way."

"Christine, the man is a murderer!"

"And you will be, as well, if you take his life!"

"Why do keep defending him?"

"Because I love him!" The room went silent save for Erik's heavy breathing as both men stared at her in disbelief. "I love him, Raoul," she whispered softly.

The vicomte looked as though he had been slapped. The hand holding the dagger returned limply to his side. "Obviously, he has you under whatever seductive spell he had before."

"No, Raoul! Listen to me! I came here of my own free will. I stayed here because he needed help…" She paused to take a deep breath. "…And in the time that I have spent with him over the past few days, I have come to realize that it never was the man behind the mask I feared but the power of my own emotions…You are a good man, Raoul. A good man, and one of my dearest friends. Growing up, you were like the brother I never had…I _do_ love you, Raoul, but I'm afraid that it is not the same form of affection that you feel for me…One day you will make a wonderful husband for someone..." She gently removed the ring from her finger and held it out to him "…But that someone is not me. I cannot marry you in good faith, Raoul, for while I would belong to you in name, my heart belongs to someone else. I am sorry..."

The vicomte stared at the ring in his palm with astonishment. Slowly, his fist closed around the ring, clenching it so tightly that he could feel the imprint in his skin. Hurling it across the room, he heard it clink against the far wall before sinking silently to the bottom of the lake.

"Then stay here!" he shouted. There was an angry tremor in his voice. "Stay here with your disfigured lover! I hope that you are happy with him, Christine, because you will _never_ hear from me again!"

With that, he turned and limped over to the tunnel from whence Christine had come where Meg had been silently watching the entire exchange. He pushed past her and continued on, not caring that he had left his sword or that Christine had been following after him.

"Raoul! Raoul, wait, please!"

Meg gently grabbed her friend's arm. "Let him go, Christine. He needs a bit of time to himself." Her eyes flitted to Erik, who still lay on the floor in a pool of blood that was gradually becoming larger. He looked betrayed, hurt. She bowed her head. "I am so sorry, Christine…Monsieur Erik…Please, do not be angry. My mother had nothing to do with this…I was worried about Christine. I thought I was doing what was best for her, but…I never meant for any of this to happen!"

Christine had returned to Erik's side and was studying the splash of red that continued to soak through his clothing. "These wounds need to be treated…" She looked up, worriedly. "Meg, you know a little about medical procedure, correct?"

Meg looked uncomfortable. "Christine, my father died when I was five. I barely remember anything he taught me. I hardly think it's enough knowledge to treat an injury like this!"

"But you've read some in his medical books, haven't you? And you've always been better at sewing than me. Surely you could stitch him up?"

"I don't know, Christine…I understand some of the theories, but…I've never actually tried to apply them…"

"Meg, we can't get him to a doctor, and even if we could we'd risk him being recognized… Please, Meg…You may be our only hope…"

Meg stared at her hands. "After all that I have done, I suppose it is the least I can do…I can't promise it will work, but I will try my best…" She lifted her eyes to Erik. "If you will permit me, monsieur?"

Erik grit his teeth against the pain but nodded curtly.

Meg knelt down beside him opposite Christine and gently rolled him onto his side so that she could better inspect the injury on his back. Erik grunted in discomfort but tried not to think about the knife wound and instead focused on Christine. It was difficult for him to concentrate with all the blood loss he had experienced. He felt dizzy and disoriented. He didn't want to tell Christine, but he doubted that anything they did to help him would truly make a difference. He could feel his energy, his lifeblood draining away. He smiled wryly.

"Not a pretty sight, am I?"

And in truth, he was not. If his face had been frightening before, it was hideously gruesome now. The deep gash that ran from just above his right eyebrow down across his left cheek was bleeding profusely. Red rivulets ran down the contours of his face, dripping from his right eye as though he were weeping blood and running down from the bridge of his nose to stain his pale, lifeless lips, giving him an almost vampiric appearance. At the moment he more closely resembled a monster from a horror story than a man.

Christine did not deny his assumption but gently placed a hand on his cheek. There were tears in her eyes. "That doesn't matter to me. What matters is that you are alive."

_Not for much longer._

Erik winced as Meg began applying pressure to the wound on his back in an attempt to stop the bleeding.

The girl looked up from her work. "Christine, I need some rags…some towels or something to wrap this."

Christine didn't hesitate but immediately began to tear long strips of cloth from her dress, handing them to her friend when she was finished. "Now what?"

Meg blushed profusely, glancing first at Christine, then at Erik. "I hate to ask this of you, but I need you to remove your shirt."

Erik felt the breath catch in his throat. For a brief instant, he was back at the cathedral. Father Destler's condemning words echoed in the back of his mind. _Remove your shirt, boy._

"No!" He gasped.

Meg looked to Christine for help. "I can't properly wrap it if I don't get beneath the shirt. The bandages will be too loose."

Christine took his hand, slick with blood from covering his wounds, and gave it a soft squeeze. "We will be gentle, I promise, but it must be done."

"Whether you are gentle matters not," he wheezed. "What is one more scar when there are already so many?"

"Surely it can't be that bad…"

He grimaced. "You may be the judge of that for yourself. Do as you think is necessary, but do not say I haven't warned you."

Christine and Meg shared a confused look but quickly shrugged it off. No sooner had Meg begun to peel back the blood soaked fabric than she gave a little squeak, her hands shrinking back from the shirt as though it were contaminated. Christine was about to remark on her friend's behavior when she noticed what Meg had been looking at. She gasped softly as she stared at the exposed skin. His torso was smooth and flat, taught with muscle without an inch of fat. It was as if his body had been carved from marble, as if he belonged among the statues of the ancient Greek and Roman gods. Christine had never seen a man's bare chest before, but it was not his godlike figure that caught her attention. It was the angry white scars that crisscrossed his back like a roadmap, like a writhing pile of snakes. Christine could not tear her eyes from the sight. Erik looked away, ashamed.

Christine ran her fingers along his back, sending shivers down his spine. "Erik," she whispered, "who did this to you?"

In truth, he didn't know. Father Destler had been the first, but certainly not the last. As a part of the gypsies' travelling circus, he had been beaten nearly every day…sometimes several times a day. On different days it had been different people, though it had been primarily the one he called "Master." He hated the word with a passion. But the gypsies had never bothered to use his given name, and so he had never bothered to learn theirs, though he could see their jeering faces in his mind as clear as day. He clenched his teeth.

"People who thought the Devil's Child deserved punishment."

Christine was livid. "How could anyone do such a thing to their fellow man? To any of God's creatures, for that matter?"

Erik hissed as another wave of pain radiated out from the stab wound on his back. Meg had begun to dress the wound and, though he knew she was trying to be gentle, the bandages had to be tied tight enough to reduce the blood flow. It was as if a second white-hot knife had been inserted into the wound. He squeezed Christine's hand a bit harder than he intended.

"I suppose…the…the Devil's Child is not considered one of God's creations," he laughed cynically.

Christine shook her head. "Whoever believed such nonsense about you was an ignorant fool! I should very much like to see _them_ receive just punishment for their crimes against humanity, though I suppose they will…in time…"

Erik smiled slightly at the thought. He wasn't certain whether Madame Giry had told Christine the story of how he had escaped from the circus, sending his master to his Maker a bit prematurely, but he thought it best not to mention the incident at the moment. Though he knew in his heart it was wrong, he couldn't help but feel the slightest joy at knowing that the heavy-handed gypsy was now enduring an eternity of pain even worse than that which he had inflicted. He hoped that Father Destler, who had used God's name to carry out his own agenda, was there with him. But then it crossed his mind that people _could_ change. From the many conversations that he and Christine had shared over the past few days, he had learned that in some instances, God had even forgiven people lying at death's door [1]. If that were true, it was good news for _him_, given his current condition, but then it also opened up the possibility that _they_ had made their way to heaven, too. The thought troubled him. Did that mean he would have to forgive them? Should he forgive them anyway, regardless of their final decision? Erik wasn't sure he _could_ forgive them even if he wanted to (which quite frankly, he didn't). And he wasn't sure that he could honestly say he was sorry for ending the gypsy's life. _Oh, God, help me! _He made a mental note to ask Christine about such questions later…_If _he actually survived this ordeal.

There was another sharp stab of pain as Meg tied off the last of the bandages. My goodness, they were tight! He was having enough trouble breathing as it was. Was it really necessary to choke him?

Meg wiped her hands on her skirt and pulled out a handkerchief, which she dipped in the lake at their feet. It wasn't the cleanest water, but it was the closest at hand and for the moment, it would have to do. She handed it to Christine while she began to prepare a crude needle and thread from the limited materials she had.

Christine paused before wiping the blood from his face. "This may sting a little," she apologized.

"Nothing I can't manage," he grunted.

Carefully, she began cleaning first the places where the blood had dripped, then the edges of the wound. Erik sucked in a sharp breath but refrained from further expression of pain.

As she finished wiping away the blood, Meg came forth with the needle and thread. Instantly, Erik tensed. Although he had endured many lacerations and open wounds in his life, he hadn't ever actually had stitches – generally because no one had cared enough to stitch him up – and stitches on his face was something he was definitely _not_ looking forward to.

Meg assessed the situation. "I know this is going to be difficult, but I'm going to need you to be very still…and try not to tense up too much…It will only make it hurt worse, and the stitches won't go in as well. Just relax."

_Relax?_ How in the world was he supposed to stay still and relax while she was pushing needles in and out of his face? Erik sighed. Well, he would do his best. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath and waited for the needle to pierce his flesh. There was a sharp stinging sensation just above his right eyebrow. He could feel the string lacing through his skin, and on top of the blood loss and the shooting pain in his back, it was nearly enough to make him pass out. Not to mention the fact that he was still feeling a bit ill from being out in the cold. He wondered what would happen if he were to cough or sneeze while she was working on his face and decided that he absolutely did _not_ want to find out. He gripped Christine's hand so hard she had a feeling it would leave bruises, but she knew his pain was far worse than her own, so she didn't say anything about it. By the time Meg finally finished, Christine's hand had nearly lost all feeling, and Erik had determined that stitches were most definitely a form of torture.

"Chris…Christine?" His voice was distant, weak. Nothing like the voice that she remembered.

Meg had returned home nearly an hour ago, leaving Erik and Christine alone together once again. But what should have been romantic privacy more closely resembled despairing isolation. And never in her life had Christine been so afraid to find herself alone with him. When he had been the Angel of Music, she'd had no reason to fear him. When he had been the Phantom, even in his more dangerous moments, she had always known somewhere in the back of her mind that he would never harm her, and she had always known in her heart of hearts that she loved him. Even when he had revealed himself to be no more than a man – perhaps the most dangerous creature of them all – she had trusted him with her virtue, with her life. But now it frightened her.

She was afraid to look at him, afraid to see his ashen skin, his hazy, lifeless eyes. Those eyes that had once sparkled with love, burned with passion, and seared her to the core. Those emerald eyes that had once frightened and entranced her with their flame. Now they terrified her with their empty gaze.

He was no spectral figure, no angelic being, no monster. He was a man. Just a man. And a man was capable of dying.

Christine felt the silent tears slip down her cheeks, and she quickly moved to brush them away.

Erik stretched out a shaking hand toward her face.

"Angels…were not meant to cry…Christine." He wiped away a tear, stroking her cheek with his thumb. It was rough, caked with layers of dried blood and dirt from the floor where he lay, but his touch was gentle, calming. "Do not waste your tears on me."

Christine put her hand over his, holding it close to her face. A few more tears slipped free. "I don't want to lose you."

Erik smiled weakly. These were not tears of pity. These were tears of love. He slowly let his hand slip to her lap.

"Christine…will you…will you do me a favor?"

"Anything."

"When I am gone…"

"Don't say that!"

"Christine, please…Listen to me…I don't know how much time I have to say this." He paused, wincing at the throbbing pain in his back. "In the pipe on the far right of the organ…There is…there is a key…The pipe is loose, so you'll be able to remove it…The key opens the lock on the safe in the storage room. It is where I keep the money I collect from the managers… I want you to have it…" He took one of her hands in both of his. Blinded by selfish desire, he had ruined her life at the opera house when she had saved his in more ways than one. He would make it up to her. "Use it...to start a new life with someone…who can make you happy."

"_You_ make me happy, Erik."

"Then, perhaps…there is still hope…"

Christine shook her head. "I don't understand."

"Reach into my pocket." He would have done it himself, but he didn't feel like he had the strength.

Christine hesitated, then slowly slipped her hand into the dark fabric just below his hip. He took a bit of devilish pleasure in watching her slight discomfort as she ran her fingers along the thin veil of cloth that separated her hand from his thigh. At last, she felt something metal, something cool to the touch, something like…

"The ring," she breathed. Christine held it up, turning it back and forth, as if she did not truly believe what she was seeing. The large diamond diadem sparkled in the candlelight. "You've kept it with you all this time?"

Erik seemed not to have heard her question. "Christine, I have nothing to offer you…No title…No surname…" He had long forgotten his mother's last name, and he absolutely _refused_ to acknowledge _that man's_ part in his family history. "…Not even…not even a handsome young face…" His breathing was becoming shallower, more labored. "But I _can_ promise you all the love that is within my heart, though I fear it is not nearly enough…Christine…Will you…marry me?"

Christine froze, breath caught in her throat, heart scarcely beating. Slowly, she reached for his hand, and for a brief, heart-wrenching moment, he thought she was going to return the ring. What she did instead surprised him. Taking his right hand, she gently placed the ring between his index finger and thumb. Then, holding up his hand for him, she guided the ring onto her finger. "Yes."

Erik smiled, struggling to catch his breath. "Now…now I can die…a happy man."

Christine cupped his face in her hands. Her voice was desperate, pleading. "Erik, you are not going to die!"

He gave a half-hearted laugh, though it ended up being more of a cough. "Can't hope for too many miracles in the same day…Do you remember my prayer, Christine?"

She nodded tearfully.

"You used to call me your angel, Christine, but the real angel has always been you. _You_ are my miracle. You have shown me what love is even when I did not deserve it." His voice was trembling, his breathing shaky. "Now I know that if I had been born a handsome man, I might have had more love from the world, but I would never have known a love as true and pure as yours. And that has made it all worth it."

Christine choked back a sob.

"I have wanted to end my life many times, Christine. The reason I did not kill myself the night of the fire, was because I was afraid…Afraid that God hated me as much as everyone else…Afraid I was beyond any love or redemption…" Now there were tears in his eyes as well. "But when I look into your eyes, I can see the better part of me, the man I want to be…And I'm not afraid anymore."

Christine leaned down and gently kissed his lips. It was not a kiss of passion, nor of pity. It was a kiss goodbye.

Erik suddenly broke away, coughing, and Christine ran her fingers through his hair, trying to soothe him. When he had regained his composure, he offered her a half-smile. "You always did know how to take my breath away."

Christine smiled through her tears and shook her head.

"Christine," he asked, suddenly serious, "will you sing for me…one…last…time?"

The girl sniffed and wiped the wet streaks from her face. "What would you like for me to sing?"

His eyes were growing heavy. "It doesn't matter…Just as long…as I hear…your voice."

She could feel his hand going slack now, could hear his shallow breathing growing fainter. His chest was barely moving; his heart was barely beating. He was slipping away, away to the world where he would finally become the Angel she'd always known him to be. But now she found that when it came time for her Angel to fly, she did not want to set him free. Stroking his face, memorizing each and every imperfection with her fingertips, she did her best to fulfill his dying wish. Her voice was ragged, thick with tears – a far cry from the magnificent voice with which she had graced the audience of the opera – but there was no mistaking the emotion in her song.

_Show Your mercy that is new each morning. Give him all Your peace and solitude._

_ Show Your mercy to him now and always. Forgive him as You know I do._

_ Forgive him. That's all I ask of _–

Christine broke down into sobs. "Oh, God, please don't let him die!" It was a selfish prayer, she knew, a prayer that was unlikely to be answered. But she had to try. "Please," she begged. "I love him." Leaning over, she put her head against his chest and cried into his shoulder. "I love you, Erik." The words were a whisper in his ear, a distant echo amid the silence as he slipped into the comfort of a dark and dreamless sleep. "I love you."

[1] Reference to Luke 23:42-43. A thief on the cross next to Jesus says, "Lord, remember me when You come into Your kingdom." Jesus' response is "Most assuredly I say to you, today you will be with Me in Paradise."


	8. A Legend is Born

**Chapter Eight: A Legend is Born**

The light was too bright. Painfully, blindingly too bright. Erik closed his eyes and groaned. There was a burning sensation in the lower right part of his back, as if someone had taken a hot branding iron to his skin, and his face felt like it had been clawed open by a wild animal. He opened his eyes again, just a slit, and tried to take in his surroundings.

He was lying on a small, soft bed covered with an old patchwork quilt. He thought he recognized some of the fabric, though he couldn't quite seem to remember where he had seen it before. There were a few drops of blood smeared across the white embroidered pillowcase, which he assumed must have come from his face. To the left of the bed there was a nightstand with a small oil lamp and a an open Bible. In the far corner of the room was a dusty old bookshelf lined with every genre from poetry to politics. He scanned some of the titles – _Faust, Frankenstein, Notre-Dame de Paris, Sense and Sensibility_ – and smiled at the bitter irony. Whoever owned this room must have had him in mind. [1] At the base of the shelf a violin was propped against the side. It looked as though it hadn't been used in ages, but judging from the quality of the wood, it had once been a fine instrument, indeed. Erik was intrigued. He had never played a violin before, but he had taught himself many things, and he felt confident that, if given the chance, he could learn to slip the bow across the strings as easily as he could slip his fingers across the keys of the pipe organ. He wondered whether whoever owned the neglected instrument might allow him to play it. After all, _they_ certainly didn't seem to be using it. He noticed the light again, spilling through the small, square window with an intensity that told him it was most likely mid-day. He lifted a hand to shield his eyes.

_Where am I?_ _The last thing I remember is Christine – _

His eyes widened. "Christine! Where is Christine?"

The turning of the doorknob caught his attention. Instantly, he sat up, scrambling to cover his face, but completely forgetting about his back, which screamed in agony at the sudden movement. He was still gasping in pain when the door opened. He shrunk back against the bedpost, wishing desperately that he could disappear.

"Calm yourself, Erik." Madame Giry approached the bed. "There is no need to hide from me." She smiled softly. "Welcome back to the land of the living. We thought we had lost you there for awhile."

Erik slowly let the hand slip from his face. "Where is Christine?" he repeated.

"Asleep on the sofa in the main room. The poor child has hardly gotten any rest the past few days. She has been so worried about you…We all were."

Unused to such expressions of concern, Erik was uncertain how to respond. "How long have I been asleep?"

Madame Giry pulled a chair he hadn't noticed before to the bedside and took a seat. "Three days."

Erik was incredulous. "Three _days_? Has it been that long?"

Madame Giry looked grave. "Christine tells me that you had fever a few days before the…accident…It was almost gone, but when your body experienced the stress of the wounds, it must have come back. I think there was a slight infection, as well, which contributed to your condition."

He ducked his head. "I am sorry for causing you so much trouble…I appreciate your help, but you should not have brought me here. I do not wish to put your family in danger."

"We would only be danger if they thought you were still alive."

"Antoinette, you know the penalty for those caught harboring a murderer. If I am seen – "

"You will not be seen."

The look on her face told him the argument was over. He sighed. She was the only person who could look him straight in the eyes without his mask and manage to intimidate _him_. Though only a few years his senior, she was the only mother figure he had truly ever known, and he held her in great respect.

Madame Giry broke the tension. "I must apologize for my daughter's actions. I do not think she ever intended for you to be harmed; nevertheless, she should not have been so hasty in her decisions, and I should have kept a closer eye on her."

"She was only trying to protect Christine. I cannot fault her for that. And she did tend my wounds…I suspect that seeing that horrible, bloody mess was more than enough punishment for her." His eyes suddenly flashed to the bookcase, and he nodded toward it. "Is that your violin? May I borrow it sometime?"

The ballet mistress looked mildly surprised. "I did not know you could play."

"I don't. But I would like to learn. If you would allow it, of course."

"You will have to ask Christine. The violin belonged to her father. She does not play, but she cannot bring herself to give it away."

"Why is Christine's violin in your guest – " His expression suddenly darkened. "You put me in Christine's bedroom?" His voice was low, dangerous. Here he was, sleeping in _her_ bed while she was forced to sleep on the couch.

Madame Giry didn't flinch. "On her request, yes."

Erik sighed again. She had never feared him the way everyone else did. Most of the time, that was a good thing, but every once in awhile, when he tried to use society's fear to his advantage, it was just irritating. He sulked.

Madame Giry chuckled softly at his immaturity and shook her head. "I did not ask her to give up her room. It was her choice."

Erik was silent for a moment. "May I see her?"

The ballet instructor stood to leave and began walking to the door. "As soon as she wakes, I will tell her that you wish to speak with her. In the mean time, you should continue to rest. I will be back in a few hours to change the bandages." She was about to step into the corridor when she suddenly turned to look back over her shoulder. "Oh, and Erik?"

He glanced up.

She smiled softly. "Welcome home."

Home. The word was unfamiliar to him, foreign. In all of his life, he had never truly had a home. Erik slowly lowered himself back to the bed, mindful of his back, and stared up at the ceiling. Had it only been a few nights ago that he had been staring up at the floor of the Opera Populaire? When he had invited Christine to stay with him, he had been wrong in referring to his dwelling beneath the opera house as a home. It was a lair, perhaps. A house of sorts. But certainly not a home. A home was more than just a place to live. It was made up of people who loved and cared about you, something he had never felt he had.

His mother's house had been cold and unforgiving. She had done her best to feed and clothe him and keep a roof over his head, but it was all out of obligation, not love. Nevertheless, he had loved her, and it had nearly killed him to watch as the cruel man who had defiled his mother and cursed her to give birth to a monster burned her at the stake. He remembered watching from behind the bars of the gypsy circus cage, hearing her scream, smelling the scent of her scorched flesh. He shuddered. Even now it sickened him to think of it.

Living with the gypsies had been the worst experience of his life. For nearly seven years he had endured unbearable beatings, incessant humiliation, and sanitary conditions that would make even a sewer rat recoil. That horrible space between bars was about the furthest thing from a home that he could imagine.

Beneath the opera house, things had been different. There, he was ruler. There, he was king. He'd had the entire labyrinth of passageways and dungeons to himself. Alone with his music, no one dared to disturb the infamous Opera Ghost. But the problem remained that he was still alone. And then, he'd heard an angel sing. An orphan girl, singing prayers in the chapel, sounding as lonely and forlorn as he. And slowly, he began an acquaintanceship which turned into a friendship which blossomed into love. He had been too shy to show himself at first, had taken on the guise of an angel to conceal his horrid features and spun a web of lies that in the end had nearly become his own hangman's noose. He had escaped, narrowly, but only because Christine had had the strength to see past his faults – internal as well as external – and show him a better way.

Now, as he lay in her bed in Madame Giry's cottage, he thought about what it might feel like to actually have a home. Here, he was among friends. Here, he had a family. Christine had pulled him from the pits of despair, had shown kindness and selflessness on several occasions even before she had admitted her love. Meg, who had grown up knowing about him from her mother, had always kept his history a secret. She had never pried too deeply into his past or let anyone know that she knew of his lair – not even Christine! And despite her mistrust of him to properly care for Christine, he knew that it would take more than loyalty to one's mother and best friend for most people to care enough to stitch him up – though admittedly, she could have been a bit more gentle! Madame Giry had taken him in on countless occasions, even when putting herself and her daughter at risk. For years she had served him at the opera house, not only as a messenger, but also to pick up things he needed in town, taking a percentage of his twenty thousand franc allowance to buy him food and other necessities. He had offered her pay, but she had always refused it unless she absolutely needed the money. And then there was Élise, the tiny gray kitten who had managed to find her way into the vaults beneath the opera house and who had currently wandered into the room, nudging the door open to let herself in. He remembered the first day he saw her, cold and wet, shivering as she took shelter from the icy winter rain just inside the entrance of his emergency escape tunnel. She had never been afraid of his face. To her, he just looked like any other human – a human who had happened to be very nice to her, and she hadn't forgotten it. Every once in awhile she had slipped away from the ballet dorms and come to visit him in the hidden passageways that only she and he knew how to navigate. Now, as she hopped onto the bed beside him, her green eyes glowing with the unconditional affection that only an animal can give, he realized that he had always been loved. Well, perhaps not _always_ and perhaps not in the way that he had longed for, but still, he had been loved. Blinded by what he had thought love was supposed to be, he had neglected to realize what it actually was. Love was self-sacrifice when it was easier to indulge. Love was keeping others' privacy when it was easier to spread gossip. Love was putting others first. Love was service. Love was innocent affection and acceptance given freely. And sometimes love was pity.

Erik smiled – truly smiled – for the first time in what felt like years. He stroked Élise, relishing the feel of her warm, rumbling purr against his fingertips. _Yes_, he thought,_ I am home. And I am loved._

After a few hours of rest, Erik had become bored. He had been confined to a bed off and on for nearly a week now, and it was beginning to bother him. He hated being so still, so unproductive for such a long period of time. Usually, if he wasn't composing, he was singing, and if he wasn't singing, he was reading. He didn't quite feel up to composing, and he wasn't sure if Madame Giry would appreciate his opera singing in her quiet little cottage. Not to mention he might wake Christine…or alert the authorities of his presence…or hurt his back taking the deep breaths required to hold some of the notes. He frowned. Well, if singing was out of the question, at least he could read. He skimmed over the list of books on the shelf again. He was familiar with most of the modern classics, many of which he owned in his personal collection back at the opera house. He had always loved poetry and found a few of the history books moderately intriguing, but nothing in particular had caught his eye. He wanted to read something new, something different. That was when he noticed the book on the bedside table. Curious, he picked it up. Realizing what it was, he was half-surprised that the Holy Book hadn't burst into flames at his touch. Having grown up on the streets and in the dungeons, Erik had never actually read a Bible before. What little he had learned about God as a child described Him as an angry, arrogant God who expected perfection and punished those who were imperfect without mercy. But Christine had told him otherwise. Christine had told him of a God who was loving and kind, who reached out to the weak and forgave those who made mistakes. He'd had a hard time accepting it at first, but already he had come to realize that his plea for love had not gone unanswered nearly as long as he'd once thought. If that were the case, then maybe, just maybe, his latest cries for forgiveness had been heard as well. The book was open to the ninth chapter of Acts, and he found himself suddenly drawn to the story as his eyes scanned the page. [2] He had just finished reading the chapter when there was a soft knock on the door. Sitting up a bit straighter, he closed the book and set it aside.

"Come in."

He had been expecting Madame Giry but was instead pleasantly surprised to see Christine. She looked tired, as though she hadn't slept for days, but she was smiling. She did not say a word but walked silently over to the side of the bed and wrapped her arms gently around him.

"Oh, Erik, I'm so that you're alright. I thought that…I thought…" She could not bring herself to say the words out loud.

He heard a soft gasp and felt something warm and wet hit his shoulder. He pulled her in a bit closer and stroked her hair, allowing his fingers to slip through her soft curls. "It's alright, Christine. I'm fine."

She lingered for a moment longer before pulling back. "How are you feeling?"

"Much better since you arrived."

She noticed for the first time since entering the room that her Bible no longer lay open. She said nothing but raised an eyebrow in question.

"I was…curious," he explained.

"Curiosity has led many great men and women to amazing, life-changing discoveries."

"It has also led many men and women to their death," he said gravely. "You of all people should know that curiosity can cause you to make dangerous mistakes."

"Perhaps I did allow my curiosity to get the better of me a few times, but if discovering who you are was a mistake, it is without a doubt the best mistake that I have ever made." She smiled.

He returned the smile, glancing down at her hand on his lap. The ring was still there. His ring. Their ring. He couldn't believe that she was still wearing it, that it hadn't all just been a trick of his fevered mind. He took her hand in his, running his thumb over the ring, making sure it was actually there.

"So, I suppose now the question is," he said, "where do we go from here?"

"I don't know." She shook her head. "We can't stay here forever, but we can't risk you being recognized…and we can't go back to the opera house…Well, I suppose we could, but… I would have no job to return to…"

Erik averted his eyes guiltily.

There was another knock at the door, and Madame Giry stepped in. "Ah, so I see that you are both awake now. Good. Well, I shall not interrupt you for long, but I do need to change your bandages."

Erik groaned at her utter lack of appropriate timing and started to slip off his shirt when he realized for the first time that he was not wearing the same clothes that he had been in on the day of the fight. His clothes were clean. There was not a trace of blood on him anywhere other than a tiny bit on his forehead and a small splotch of red that was just beginning to seep through the bandages. He took a deep breath, trying to keep his voice level, but he spoke through clenched teeth. "You undressed me."

"You were covered in blood, Erik," Madame Giry responded. "What did you want me to do?"

Erik had flushed the color of a tomato, and he desperately wished for the mask. Why, oh, why did Christine have to be present for this conversation?

"And before you ask," the ballet mistress continued, noting that the color had risen in Christine's cheeks as well, "neither of the girls was present. It is something that I am sure neither one of us wishes to discuss, and something we will not speak of in the future." She had another one of her famous "conversation terminated" looks on her face, and he didn't question it, grateful to be leaving the topic.

"Now then," she said, "I believe we should begin with the bandages. Unfortunately, I am running out of the appropriate material, so I am afraid we shall have to make do with a bit of the scrap cloth."

Christine glanced up at her teacher. "I could go into town if you'd like for me to buy some new bandaging material," she volunteered.

Madame Giry shook her head. "Thank you, Christine, but that won't be necessary. I am trying to save all the money that I can. I do not know if or when I shall get another job…" She sighed. "I have worked at the opera house for so long, I do not know what I will do now…"

Erik felt the guilt sink in again, and for a moment, he almost wished that they could go back to the previous conversation. Embarrassment was something he was accustomed to. Guilt was not. Of course, neither of the women had actually blamed him, but…

"What can I do?" he asked.

Madame Giry and Christine glanced at one another, then looked back at Erik, uncomprehending.

"It is my fault that the both of you are out of a job. What can I do to help?"

The room was silent for a moment as everyone collected their thoughts. Christine's eyes suddenly brightened, but her look of enlightenment was quickly replaced by a frown.

Erik noticed. "What is it, Christine?"

She bit her lip. "I have an idea…but you're not going to like it."

The ballet mistress seemed intrigued. "Well, whether or not Erik would like to hear it, I certainly would."

Christine hesitated. She didn't want to upset Erik, but she knew the plan would never work without his support. She glanced his way and noticed that he was giving her an approving look to continue. She took a deep breath and looked into his eyes.

"What if we could repair the Opera Populaire, bring it back to its former glory? If you had the chance, would you do it?"

"Of course. I have lived at the Opera for so many years I almost feel as though it is a part of me. When I destroyed it in the fire, I felt like the music had died, like a piece of my heart had died. Unfortunately, regret alone cannot restore, and even were I to put all of my savings into the repairs – which I would gladly do – it still wouldn't be enough."

"But if we could get a patron to support us – "

"I highly doubt the vicomte will wish to support anything with which I am involved, nor am I entirely certain that I want him meddling in the affairs of _my_ opera house."

There was an edge to his voice that Christine did not like, and she gave him a disapproving look.

He looked down. "I'm sorry. But you must admit, it is a bit difficult to like a man who has, quite literally, stabbed you in the back." He paused for a moment. "Quite honestly, though, I don't see why he would want to support us after all that has transpired."

Christine twirled a strand of her hair nervously. "If I can convince him that you will cause no more trouble and that the opera could once again be great, I think he might consider it."

"And how do you propose we accomplish this?"

"We write an opera." Christine was silent for a moment, watching her companions' expressions change from surprised to concerned.

Erik proceeded carefully. "Christine…It is a wonderful idea, but an opera cannot be written overnight. It takes even the best composers years to finish their work. _Don Juan Triumphant_ took me at least two or three years to complete, and I had been working on some of the pieces far longer than that."

"Perhaps…but it wouldn't take so long if you already had the songs and the storyline in mind."

"You can't just use someone else's songs, Christine."

"I'm not suggesting that…I…I want us to use your songs…" She paused. "I want us to write an opera about us…about you."

"About me?"

Christine nodded hesitantly.

He laughed, somewhat harshly. "And where, pray tell, do you plan to find an actor willing to play the role of the disfigured monster?"

Christine said nothing, but the hopeful look in her eyes was the only answer he needed.

"No! No, I will NOT!" He tried to make his voice angry and intimidating, but at best he sounded hurt and at worst he sounded terrified. "Do you realize what you are asking of me, Christine?"

"You said you would help if you could…"

"So you would parade me around like – like some sort of animal and use my _deformity_," he spat the word angrily, "to your own advantage? Is that all you think of me? Is that what you wish?"

"No." She took his hand in hers, but he pulled away, refusing to look at her. His breathing had become shaky, and she could tell that he was having difficulty controlling his emotions, though whether it was anger or hurt he was holding back she did not know. She gently reached up and turned his face toward her. "I wish for the world to know what a wonderful man you are. If they know the truth, perhaps they will better understand…and will come to love you as I have."

Madame Giry, who had been silent up to this point, decided to enter the conversation. "Christine, you are forgetting that to the rest of the world, he is still a criminal."

"To the rest of the world, he is dead. Besides, very few people have actually seen his face close enough to recognize it, and the new scar will make him more difficult to identify."

"But he will be out in the open, right in front of their eyes!"

"Which is the exact opposite of what they will be expecting."

"Christine," Erik finally spoke again, "all of Paris will be watching." This time there was no mistaking the mortifying fear within his voice, and she knew that it wasn't fear of being caught but fear of being _seen_ that troubled him.

"Erik, this could be the opportunity that you have been waiting for. This could be your chance to make things right, to share your music with the world…to start a new life. Isn't that what you want?"

"I can't go out there alone, Christine."

"You don't have to."

Erik closed his eyes and took a long, calming breath. "Alright. If you can convince the vicomte to give his support, I will do it."

Christine smiled and gave his hand a gentle squeeze. "And I will be right there with you every step of the way."

Christine knocked on the door of the de Changy residence and did her best to suppress the uncomfortable roiling of her stomach. Never in her life had she been so nervous about seeing Raoul, and it bothered her. They had always been able to talk before. They had always been comfortable around one another. Even after nearly nine years apart when he had shown up at the opera house that day, it had seemed as if no time at all had passed since they'd seen each other. They'd slipped into casual conversation about days gone by almost instantly, and their childhood infatuation had quickly progressed into something more…or so she'd thought. Perhaps that was the problem. Perhaps things had moved a little too quickly for her to adjust; in the course of only three or four months, she had gone from being a simple, single chorus girl to a young woman who was the star of the show, caught up between the innocent love of her childhood sweetheart and the romantic passions of a mysterious, murderous opera ghost. It had all been a bit much to take in, and confused about her own feelings, she had made a rash decision that had nearly cost her both of the men that she cared for. But now that she'd had time, she had made her decision, and she could only hope that Raoul would forgive her and come to understand in time.

A wiry-haired, squinty old woman with thick glasses answered the door, and Christine put on what she hoped was a genuine-looking smile.

"Oh! Miss Christine! It's so wonderful to see you, child! I heard the most awful rumors about you running off with some strange, misshapen man old enough to be your father! Oh, I knew it wasn't true!"

Christine blushed profusely and decided it was better not to address her assumptions. "Hello, Lydia. Is Raoul at home today?"

"Oh, of course! He'll be so happy to see you!"

"I'm not so certain about that," Christine mumbled.

"Oh, nonsense! Of course he will! Come in, come in!" The excitable old woman grabbed Christine's arm and practically drug her into the house, slamming the door behind her. "Monsieur Vicomte! Monsieur Vicomte! Oh, you'll never guess who stopped by to see you!"

Just then Raoul came bursting through the doors at the end of the hall. "Lydia, what is the meaning of all this shout–" He stopped dead in his tracks "Oh."

The old woman gave them a knowing smile and backed away. "I'll just leave you two lovebirds to catch up with each other." She gave a quick wink before disappearing down the corridor, leaving Raoul and Christine alone in the entrance hall.

For a moment, neither spoke, the uneasy silence lingering between them. Raoul's eyes flitted to her fingers, noticing the glitter of the diamonds in her new engagement ring, the ring _he_ had originally bought for her but which now symbolized her love for another. Christine caught him staring at the ring and instinctively hid her hands behind her back.

"I suppose you haven't come to apologize, then?" he asked.

"No." Why was it so difficult for her to talk to him? He was the same man that she had known a few weeks ago, so why did things seem so different this time? "Actually, I came to ask a favor. I know that I have no right to come here and ask for your help, but – "

"No, you don't." He didn't order her to leave, but neither did he give any indication of the warmth or friendliness that she had felt before.

"Raoul, I'm not sorry for the decision that I have made, but I _am_ sorry for hurting you."

"What is it you want from me?" His voice held no emotion. No anger. No sadness. Just…nothing.

"I – that is, we – would like for you to become the patron of the Opera Populaire again."

"Christine, in case you have forgotten – which I'm quite certain you have not, considering you've spent so much time there lately – there is no longer an opera house to be patron of!"

"There will be…if you will help us rebuild it."

"Why should_ I_ pay for _his _mistakes?"

"He is willing to pay for the repairs, as well. He is willing to put in all the money he has, Raoul. But it won't be enough."

"It was never _his_ money to begin with, Christine. He practically stole it from the managers, what with those death notes and such."

"Raoul, please. I am not asking for a personal favor…I wouldn't ask you to do it if it were just for me or just for him, but there are so many others involved! Think of Madame Giry and Meg, of the maestro, and the ballet dancers…They have no place to go now…Please, if not for me, consider doing it for them."

Raoul shook his head. "Even if the opera house were rebuilt, no one would ever come to it. Who would be mad enough to host an opera in the place where so many misfortunes occurred?"

"I would."

Shocked into silence, Raoul simply stared at her as though she had grown an extra head.

"I can promise you an opera unlike anything you've ever heard before. I can promise you a full house on opening night…and I can promise you that if you will do this for me, I will never trouble you again if you do not wish to see me."

He took a moment to think it over before slowly nodding his head. "I will consider it."

"Oh, thank you, Raoul! This means so much to me…" She didn't know what to do now. A kiss or a hug of gratitude might be considered inappropriate in the situation, but a handshake seemed too formal for two people who had known each other for so many years. The uncomfortable silence had returned. She sighed. "Oh, Raoul, why can't we just go back to being friends as we were before?"

He raised a hand to touch her cheek and looked into her eyes. "Because you have always been so much more than just a friend to me."

"You did _WHAT?_" The folds of skin that were nearly healed bulged against the stitches in his face.

The ballet instructor glared. "Do not raise your voice at me, Erik! When you are at the opera house, you may behave as you wish, but when you are at my house, you will be respectful. It will only be for a few hours."

"And what am I to do during that time? Hide in the garden shed again while you and your guest have tea?"

"No. I would like for you to meet him."

Erik nearly choked on the breakfast tea he'd been sipping. "_What?_"

"He is a family friend, Erik. He will not reveal your secret. I am sure of it."

"Antoinette, I do not even have a mask here with me! Do you expect me to meet someone looking like this?"

"I _expect _you to be yourself and to be kind to our visitor."

Erik huffed. "That is a bit of a contradictory statement."

"Only because you make it to be so." Madame Giry sighed. "Why must you be so difficult?"

"I was brought up fearing society, and society was brought up fearing me! In case you haven't noticed, I don't particularly do well with other people, especially nosy newspaper reporters! Why are you so sure that he won't tell all of France that I am alive?"

"Because he is an old friend, and I trust him."

"That's not a good enough reason. Perhaps _you_ trust him, but I do not."

"You must learn to trust people, Erik! Love is built on trust, and until you understand that, you will never fully experience the joy that love can bring. Not everyone is against you, _mon ami_."

He sighed. "It is very difficult to trust others when they have never given you a reason to do so."

Madame Giry laid a hand on his shoulder. "I know. But you must start somewhere. Do you trust _me_, Erik?"

"Yes, of course."

"Then believe me when I tell you that I would not allow him to visit if I thought it would endanger you. I asked him to come for tea in part because I have not seen him in many years, but also because I thought that he might use his connections with the paper to help us advertise your newest opera."

"But I've barely even started it!"

"It does not matter. Let him hear what you have written. Tell him your story, and he will take care of the rest."

"Still…Would it not be safer for him to remain unaware of my survival? Already the vicomte knows, and that in itself is dangerous. I believe the only reason he has not turned me in is because he knows how Christine would react."

"Of course, it would be safer! Of course, it would be easier!…It will always be easier to hide in the shadows than to take that step out into the sunlight. But is that what you want out of life? To take the easy way out? You can survive doing that, but you cannot truly _live_. I will not force you into the light, Erik. You must decide to take that step on your own. Just remember that the sun reveals hidden beauty as well as hidden flaws."

"I do not see how I could be beautiful in any way, Antoinette."

"Then perhaps you are not looking close enough."

A knock at the door followed by the soft click of the doorknob signaled to Erik that their guest had arrived. Sinking back into the shadows with a dark hooded cloak wrapped around his shoulders, he observed from a distance as the visitor stepped inside, immediately transforming the atmosphere of quiet Giry household.

"Ah, Antoinette!" he boomed. "It's been ages!" The large man with an even larger personality pulled the ballet mistress into a friendly embrace.

"It is good to see you again, _mon ami_."

Erik felt the slightest twinge of jealousy as she returned the hug. She had never greeted him in such a way…Then again, he wasn't known for being the friendliest of fellows.

The man adjusted his spectacles, his bushy eyebrows shooting up in surprise as he noticed the fair-haired young woman standing a few steps behind her mother. "Oh, now don't tell me this lovely young lady is Meg? Why, the last time I saw her, she was a tiny little tot! Knee-high to a grasshopper, she was!"

Madame Giry smiled proudly, encouraging her daughter to step forward. "Meg, this is Monsieur Gaston Leroux. He went to law school with your father before he transferred into medicine. [3]"

Meg curtseyed politely. "A pleasure to meet you, monsieur."

Monsieur Leroux took her hand. "You have grown into a fine young woman, mademoiselle. Henri would be proud if he could see you today."

Meg blushed. "Thank you, sir."

He glanced up in Christine's direction, adjusting his glasses again. "And who is this beautiful girl?"

"Christine Daaé, sir," Madame Giry answered.

"_The_ Christine Daaé? The daughter of the Swedish violinist and budding primadonna?"

"Indeed."

The large man tipped his hat. "Well, it is most certainly an honor to meet you, Miss Daaé! I have heard quite a lot about you." He shook her hand.

"Thank you, monsieur," Christine replied. "I do hope that it is only good things you have heard!"

The man's big, booming laughter filled the hall, his belly jiggling like gelatin. "Only that you have the most beautiful voice in all of France!" He chuckled. "Why, there are rumors that your vocal tutor was the Opera Ghost himself!...It's a pity what happened, really. I should very much have liked to meet the man who gave you such a voice."

"Then you are in luck." Erik leaped over the railing from his position on the staircase with catlike elegance and stepped forward, careful to keep his face turned against the hood so that only the left side showed. "I did not give her the voice, monsieur. I only helped her perfect the talent which she already possessed."

The visitor did not seem unduly surprised by his sudden appearance but merely glanced at Madame Giry, smiling. "I thought I might find you here."

Erik glared, mentally cursing the ballet instructor._ So it was all a trick, _he thought. _They planned this in advance. _He wondered whether Christine and Meg had been in on the secret, too.

The heavy set man continued, fingering his mustache thoughtfully. "Being a reporter, it is my duty to tell the people of France the truth. I _should_ report you to the authorities." He held up a hand before Erik could interrupt him. "BUT I'm not going to." He clamped a hand on Erik's shoulder. "I know what it's like to be tight spot, m'boy. Get lost trying to find yourself and end up in trouble with the law. Had a few rough scrapes with the bank myself in my younger years. If I hadn't had Henri to bail me out, I might still be in the debtor's prison!" He chuckled. "Antoinette and her late husband have been good friends to me for many years. When she told me that you needed a little help getting back on your feet, I thought it was the least I could do to repay her kindness."

Erik looked down. "I should hardly think that murder and debt are comparable, sir."

Leroux crossed his arms, furrowing his brow. "What do you call yourself, young man?"

"Erik," he said quietly.

"Speak up, lad! It's your _name_ – it's who you are! Be proud of it!" The giant of a man slapped him on the back, unaware of the injury hidden beneath the cloak.  
>Erik bit back a scream and resisted the urge to punch the man in that big belly of his. Once he had caught his breath, he spoke again, this time a bit more loudly. "My name is Erik, sir."<p>

Leroux scratched his bearded chin. "Well, that certainly is strange…I don't recall any murderers by that name."

Erik was becoming frustrated with the reporter's game. "Monsieur, I – "

Leroux interrupted him. "_You_ did not do anything. The _Phantom_ was responsible for those deaths, and as I recall, there was an article not too long ago – which, by the way, _I_ wrote – detailing his demise. The world believes that the Phantom died in the fire, and as far as I'm concerned, that still holds true. You may have once been the Phantom, lad, but that doesn't mean you have to be him forever."

Erik didn't respond.

Madame Giry took the break in conversation as an opportunity to move everyone to a more comfortable location. "Perhaps you two would like to continue this conversation in the sitting room? Meg and I shall prepare some tea presently."

Leroux nodded. "Of course, thank you, Antoinette."

While Meg and Madame Giry scurried off to the kitchen, Erik, Christine, and Leroux made their way to the sitting room where a blazing fire was in the hearth, radiating warmth and giving the room a cheerful, welcoming atmosphere. Christine and Erik sat beside one another on the couch while Leroux took a seat in an over-sized armchair beside the fireplace, the glow of the flames staining is brown curls a liquid auburn and reflecting off the lenses of his tiny, wire-rimmed spectacles. He pulled out a pipe from his pocket and carefully lit it, tossing the match into the fire. Taking a long, thoughtful puff, he blew a small could of smoke into the air.

"Now, then, now that we've established who you are _not_, let us begin working on who you _are_. I've heard a great deal about you, Monsieur Erik, but I'd rather hear you tell me about yourself than recite to you all that I have heard."

"There is not much to say."

"Of course there is! Everyone has a story, and I believe that yours is worth telling."

"Hardly. I can't imagine why anyone would wish to see my story performed on stage, though Christine has tried to convince me otherwise." He sighed. "I've never had trouble writing music before, but developing songs for this production has proven to be quite difficult. When I sung for her, the words simply came to me, but now…"

"Why not use the same words as you did before?"

Erik flushed. "No. No, I couldn't…They're too personal."

"Every song you write is personal. That's what music is! It's an expression of _your _thoughts, _your_ feelings, _your_ emotions. It reaches down to the depths of the soul when words alone cannot. That's where your talent as a composer eclipses mine as a humble writer. Music is all about feelings, and if your heart isn't in what you write, the audience can tell. I was a theater critic for awhile – I should know! If you really want to captivate the people, you've got to put _all _of yourself into your work – even the cracks and crevices in your heart you'd rather not show. When you do that – when you touch the fount of emotions in your own soul – then you'll touch everyone else. The reason you're having so much trouble composing is that you're trying to be something you're not."

Erik was cross. Who was this man who barely knew him to try to tell him who he was and was not. "And what exactly is it that I'm supposed to be?"

"Be Erik. Be _you_. That's all that anyone can ask of you."

"No one wants to know _me_."

Leroux took another puff on his pipe. "I believe Miss Daaé might disagree with you on that point."

Erik glanced at the girl and sighed. "Christine is different."

"And how do you know that others might not be of her same mind unless you give it a chance?"  
>"Others do not understand. They can't relate…"<p>

"You might be surprised."

"You suspect that they can relate to a misshapen man who destroyed their theater and their lives?"

"No, I suspect that they can relate to a man who yearned for the love of a woman and the grace of God. Everybody can understand that."

Erik remained silent.

"Son, a sparrow can't learn to fly until its parents push it out of the nest. It seems cruel, but they do it out of love. What Christine and Antoinette are pushing you to do may be difficult, but just when you leave your comfort zone, just as soon as you feel like you're starting to fall, why, that's when you'll take off like you never thought you could. Now, I know you weren't exactly thrilled to find out about Antoinette's plans to invite me here, and as a reporter, I'll be the first to admit that I do tend to be a bit nosy. Your life's story is none of my business, and I don't expect you to share it with a journalist, but I consider any friend of Antoinette's a friend of mine, and I hope you'll think about sharing it with a friend. Publicity is what you're going to need to get this opera off the ground, and I think I can help. I'm no good at writing musicals, but I'm pretty good at writing stories. If you can give me an idea of where you're going with this thing, I could run a series in the paper so that by the time your opera is ready you'll already have a loyal following. [4] What do you say to such a proposition?"

Erik looked to Christine, who nodded her approval, then turned back to Leroux. "I accept."

"Wonderful! Now, I'd like to get to know the man behind the mask."

Erik stiffened. "I'd rather you didn't."

The jovial man burst into another round of his rumbling laughter. "Figure of speech, lad! Figure of speech!" The laughter subsided. "Though, to be quite honest, I highly doubt it is all that terrible."

"It is." Erik did not like where this conversation was headed.

"Lad, I've seen some horrible things in my time. This line of work does that to you. They never share the good news, only the bad. I've seen train wrecks and carriage accidents, shootings and stabbings, bodies mangled beyond belief. If you're worried about frightening me, you've nothing to fear."

Erik sighed. _Might as well get this over with_. Slowly, he reached up pulled the hood back from his eyes, letting it slide softly to his shoulders. He stared at the floor, waiting for Leroux's reaction. He had expected to hear a gasp of horror, or perhaps a shriek of terror, but what he heard instead made his blood run cold. The man was laughing! The man who had _just _encouraged him to be himself had the audacity to laugh at him to his face! Erik closed his eyes, shaking with rage. The fear he could always deal with – fear could be used to his advantage – but he _hated_ the laughing. He felt his fingers curl into fists.

Christine saw his reaction and timidly laid a hand on his arm, trying to calm him. She glared at the man across the room. "How _dare_ you? How dare you laugh at him when he _trusted _you?"

Leroux's laughter softened to a minor chuckle. "Forgive me, Monsieur Erik. I was not laughing at you."

"Then what _were_ you laughing at?" Erik growled.

"The absurdity that you find yourself so abhorrent! Skin as yellow as parchment, a nose that never grew, eyes that glow in the dark – psh! What rubbish! You are hardly the demon described in such rumors. As a matter of fact, if one overlooks your minor imperfection, I believe the ladies would find you quite attractive..." He raised an eyebrow. "Isn't that right, Miss Daaé?" He gave her a wink.

Christine blushed.

Leroux chuckled, her reaction confirming what he already knew. "You see, lad, it isn't so much about how the world sees you but how you see yourself. [5] You see yourself as that wretched demon they describe, and that's all you'll ever be…But you learn to look at yourself as Christine sees you, and you'll do just fine. You must learn to let go of whatever's left of the Phantom – including the illusion that you are hideous – before you can become Erik."

Erik was stunned into silence. He opened his mouth to speak but found that no words came forth. When he finally found his voice, it was a bit shaky. "Thank you…sir."

Several cups of tea, two song rehearsals, and many hours later, Leroux was preparing to leave. He stood from his chair, stretching and stealing a quick glance at his pocket watch. "Well, Antoinette, it's been a wonderful evening, but I'm afraid I must be going."

Madame Giry smiled. "It was good to see you again, Gaston. Thank you for coming on such short notice."

"Not a problem, my dear, not a problem! It was quite enjoyable." He turned to Meg. "Meg, my dear girl, I'm afraid I'm going to have to insist that you stop growing up so quickly! At this rate, you'll be married with children before I get the chance to visit again!"

Meg giggled. "Then perhaps you should stop by more often, monsieur."

He smiled. "Perhaps I should."

Turning to Christine, he took her hand and kissed it respectfully. "It is true what they say, mademoiselle. You _do_ have the most beautiful voice in all of France. Keep up the good work."

He grasped Erik's hand in a firm handshake and thumped him good-naturedly on the shoulder. "Erik, m'boy, take care! I shall look forward to seeing your opera preformed on stage."

Christine smiled. "Then you shall be present on opening night?"

He tipped his hat. "Wouldn't miss it for the world!"

[1] A few notes about the titles and how they relate to _Phantom of the Opera_:

_**Faust**__ –_ In the original _Phantom of the Opera_, _Faust_ was the main opera performed instead of _Don Juan Triumphant_, so this is a nod to Leroux's original novel.

_**Frankenstein**_ – In Mary Shelly's original version, Frankenstein's monster becomes a killer because the world despises him for his grotesque appearance. The monster begs his creator, Dr. Frankenstein, to make another female monster as hideous as he is so that he can be happy. He promises to stop the killing and disappear from society forever if only the doctor will make him a bride because he knows no human woman will ever love him. Ultimately, Dr. Frankenstein decides against creating another monster, fearing for humanity, and the monster dies alone and unloved.

_**Notre-Dame de Paris **_– Most of you probably know this title better as _The Huntchback of Notre Dame_, a story about a deformed young man hidden away from the world in the bell tower of Notre Dame. In the original story, Quasimodo, the huntchback, is an outcast from society because of his deformity. When he is publicly whipped, Esmeralda, the gypsy, is kind enough to bring him water, though she is too put off by his appearance to actually allow him to kiss her hand. He falls desperately in love with her, but she does not return the feelings. Though he tries his best to save her, Esmeralda is eventually hanged on false charges and Quasimodo goes to her final resting place, holding her corpse until he eventually dies of starvation. Their bones are found years later, still locked together in an embrace.

_**Sense and Sensibility**_ – This story involves a young woman named Marianne Dashwood who gets caught up in a love triangle between a young, attractive young man named John Willoughby and Colonel Brandon, a family friend nearly twenty years her senior who is a rather quiet, reserved gentleman. She falls for Willoughby, smitten by his charming ways and good looks, but Willoughby doesn't actually have her best interests at heart. In the end, she realizes that she was a fool for loving Willoughby and instead decides to marry the Colonel. (Though Raoul is not as reckless as Willoughby and Erik is certainly not quiet and reserved, I think there are a few similarities between the story and _Phantom_ – i.e. young, handsome man who has it all vs. older man whose love goes deeper but who is ignored by the heroine.)

Okay, I think I broke the record for extremely long footnotes this time. :P

[2] In case anyone is curious, Acts 9 is where the conversion of Paul is described. Paul (formerly Saul) was one of the most well-known persecutors of Christians during the early days of Christianity. He killed many of Christ's followers, but one day on the road to Damascus, he was blinded by a great light and heard the voice of Jesus speaking to him, telling him to stop his murderous ways. After receiving his sight again three days later, Paul went on to become one of the greatest missionaries of all time! Basically, I'm drawing parallels between Paul's conversion and Erik's change of heart (though Erik's change wasn't quite so overnight), and yes, the blinding light at the beginning of the chapter and the fact that Erik is unconscious for three days are also intended to be part of the symbolism.

[3] Okay, I fudged a little on the dates here. Gaston Leroux wrote the original _Phantom of the Opera_ in 1911. The events of the movie and my story take place in 1870-1871. Monsieur Leroux was actually born in 1868, which would make him only two years old at the time of these events if I were being historically accurate, but I wanted to include a tribute to the original author in my story, so I let things slide a little. Leroux actually did go to law school for awhile before squandering his money and almost going bankrupt. Eventually he became a writer for the French newspaper _Le Matin _and went on to write many novels, including _Phantom_.

[4] Leroux's novel actually did run as a series in a French paper called _Le Gaulois_ from 1909-1910 before its publication in book format in 1911.

[5] Slightly altered version of a quote from the movie _Beastly_.


	9. All the World's a Stage

**Chapter Nine: All the World's a Stage**

Months passed and the weather warmed. Winter gave way to spring and the barren fields on the outskirts of Paris, once blanketed in white, burst into the colors of a thousand wildflowers. Erik longed to go outside, to feel the sun on his skin, to smell the sweet flowers in bloom, to walk hand in hand with Christine through the fields that lay just beyond the Girys' property, but alas, he still could not risk being seen, so he settled for working by the open kitchen window, listening to Christine's voice waft in on the breeze, singing as she gathered flowers in the garden. The repairs at the opera house were almost completed, and Erik's wounds – both physical and spiritual – were healing well.

Monsieur Leroux was good on his word, and the people of France eagerly awaited the weekend paper, anxious to read the next edition of _Le Fant__Ô__me de l'Opéra. _Erik had given Leroux permission to use his real name on the condition that the author explicitly stated that he had named the character after the man who was currently working on a musical stage production of the series which would serve both to draw attention to the upcoming opera and to avoid arousing suspicion that he and the Phantom were one and the same. Picking up the latest edition of the paper, he immediately flipped to the appropriate section and cut out the article, adding it to a growing stack of newspaper clippings on the table, using the salt and pepper shakers as makeshift paperweights. He'd read it earlier that morning, and to be honest, it hadn't set well with him. Leroux's Phantom was not him, that much was certain – Erik himself had actually suggested that Leroux use the "traditional" view of him as a skeletal figure because that was what the audience was expecting and because anyone who hadn't seen him on stage during _Don Juan _would assume it to be true, increasing his chances of not being recognized as the true Phantom. But his lack of physical resemblance to Leroux's Phantom was not what troubled him. What troubled him was that Leroux's story was coming to an end…and his version of the story ended quite morbidly. It had to be done, of course – no one could ever know that he was alive – but he hated that he died so alone and unloved. He hated that the story – and his opera – had to be cut short and leave Christine running off with the Vicomte de Changy. As he penned another line of lyrics, he considered what might have happened if she had never returned to the opera house and shuddered. Leroux probably wasn't too far off. And the worst part was that he was going to have to relive that moment on stage – that moment of pure and absolute bliss followed by the crushing anguish and utter despair of believing he would never see her again. Reliving the unmasking frightened him, but reliving Christine's departure was going to tear him apart. He wouldn't need any of his acting skills to be convincingly realistic in his emotions. He didn't want to do it. To be honest, he wasn't even sure if he _could _do it. But they were counting on him. Leroux was counting on him to turn his series into a successful stage adaptation; Madame Giry and Meg were counting on him to bring the opera house to life again, to restore their jobs; and Christine was counting on him to face his fears with courage and his past with dignity. He would not let them down. Not after they'd come this far.

At long last, Erik sighed and put the pen down, glancing up to see Madame Giry coming in from the gardens through the back door. Her arms were full of roses of every hue. She laid them gently on the counter and began searching the cabinets for a vase. She selected one made of green glass with a long, tapering bottleneck and a small, rounded base. Setting it on the counter, she poured in a bit of water from a pitcher and began arranging the flowers. Without her back still turned to the table, she addressed him.

"How is the opera coming along?"

"It's finished."

Madame Giry turned to face him. For a man who had just completed a masterpiece, he certainly sounded subdued. He stared blankly at the paper in front of him.

"Do you know," he said quietly, "that I have never signed my name?"

She waited for him to go on.

He continued to stare at the paper, unmoving. "I fear that I have been O.G. for so long that I no longer know how to be Erik."

Madame Giry abandoned the roses and put a comforting hand against his back. "You have always been Erik. Even when you were the Opera Ghost, there were still traces of you. That is why I never gave up."

Erik closed his eyes before his emotions could get the better of him. He gave a half-laugh that turned into sob. "I feel as though I don't even know myself."

She moved her hands to his shoulders, applying a comforting pressure. "You are more yourself now than you have been in years. You have been becoming Erik your entire life, but only recently have you discovered who Erik actually is. You know who you are. You are just afraid because being Erik means being better, and you don't know if you can live up to his standards. It is alright to be afraid. What is not alright is to run from your fear. Do you understand?"

Erik was blinking profusely, taking deep, shaky breaths. So far, the tears had not come. He nodded. When he had calmed down a bit, he spoke. "There still remains the problem of my surname…or lack thereof."

Madame Giry was silent for a moment. "Gérard," she said quietly. [1]

"What?"

"It was my maiden name."

"Yes…yes, I remember."

"It is a common last name. I have many relatives throughout the country and could easily claim you as a distant cousin."

Erik looked up at the woman he had long thought of as a mother with a hopeful longing in his eyes. "You would…consider me your family?"

"You have always been a part of this family, Erik, in everything but name. I believe it is time to remedy that."

"You never told me…"

Madame Giry smiled. "You never asked."

Slowly, Erik picked up the pen and touched it to the paper. He took great care in each stroke, forming the letters so that they were written perfectly, lovingly. At last, he put the pen aside, allowing the ink to dry before running his fingers over the words.

Erik Gérard

Erik peered out at the audience from behind the curtain. Leroux's series had been quite a hit, and Christine was not slack in her promise to the vicomte to obtain a full house. Every single seat was filled. He scanned the audience for familiar faces and found Leroux in the third row and the vicomte in box five. _Still can't resist trying to make me angry, can you_, _de Changy?_

He felt Christine come up behind him. She laid a hand on his arm. "Well, I suppose this is it…the moment we've all been waiting for. It looks as though we've had a good turnout."

"Yes." Erik didn't want to admit it, but he felt sick to his stomach. He closed the curtain. For the moment he had donned his white half-mask and wig, and he tried to reassure himself with the knowledge that for the majority of the opera no one would see him without either. He hoped he didn't look as nervous as he felt, but Christine could read him like a book.

"Just remember that during the most difficult scenes, I'll be on stage with you."

Erik took a deep breath and nodded.

She took his hands. "Erik, all of these people are here tonight to hear _your_ music. They wouldn't have come if they weren't expecting something great. They believe in you. I believe in you."

"They wouldn't if they knew who I really was."

"Forget who you _were_. Show them who you _are_."

Erik looked up to see Madame Giry headed in their direction. She stopped a few feet from them, clasping her hands excitedly. She smiled, glancing between the two of them. "It is time." She put one hand on his shoulder and one on Christine's. "I am so very proud of both of you."

The first four acts of the opera went by quickly and without incident. The minor unmasking scene in the second act had gone well. It was so brief that the audience hadn't really had a chance to look at his face, which suited him just fine, but it had been difficult for him to reenact the anger he'd felt toward Christine at the time, cursing her and practically throwing her to the ground. He'd spent several minutes after the scene was over apologizing again and again and checking to see that he hadn't actually hurt her. But the scene that he was absolutely dreading was coming up, and he was beginning to lose his nerve. Dressed in his _Don Juan_ attire, he adjusted his cape and looked at his reflection in the mirror, something he wasn't generally fond of doing. At the moment, he resembled a dashing casanova, and he almost, _almost_ felt handsome except for the scar on his face, which the mask did little to cover…but the illusion wouldn't last for long. He lifted the black mask just the slightest bit from the right side of his face and sighed. No matter what Leroux or Christine or Madame Giry had told him, he still felt ugly. Being Erik in front of them was one thing. Being Erik on stage was quite a different matter. It had been easy for him to slip back into the persona of the Phantom on stage. Almost too easy. When he had acted out the killing scenes, he had gotten such a rush, such a surge of power, that he'd had to stop himself before he actually harmed the actors. He had thought that part of him had disappeared, and when he realized that it hadn't completely gone away, that he still had the ability to kill, it frightened him. He heard someone coming and quickly replaced the mask, hoping no one had seen. He knew it would be inevitable that they would see eventually, but he planned on putting it off for as long as possible. He turned to greet the visitor, relieved to see that it was Christine.

"Christine, I don't think I can do this."

She took his hand, interlacing her fingers with his. "You can."

He shook his head.

"Just look at me," she said. "When you're on stage, just forget that the audience exists. Don't look at them. Look at me…Remember, _I_ will be the one removing the mask, and I already know what is underneath." She gently lifted the mask up and kissed his right cheek, then slid the mask back into place. "You're going to be fine."

It was time. "Past the Point of No Return" was nearly over. They were winding their way up the staircase. They were almost to the top. Erik could barely keep his mind on the lyrics. He had written this song for them – for her – and yet he couldn't feel the passion that he'd had on the night of the fire. This time all he could feel was mind-numbing fear. He kept his eyes on Christine, refusing to look anywhere but her face, thankful that this scene required their constant eye contact. His heart felt like it was going to burst from his chest. He held Christine close, losing himself to her touch, running his fingers along her skin, imagining for a moment that the world contained no one but them.

_Say you'll share with me one love, one lifetime_

_ Lead me, save me from my solitude_

_ Say you want me with you here beside you_

_ Anywhere you go let me go too, _

He felt the reassuring warmth of her hand against his cheek, saw the look of love that was in her eyes. He braced himself for what he knew was coming.

_Christine that's all I ask of –_

The mask and wig came off, revealing his face to the audience, to the world. All the feelings of that night came rushing back. He felt naked and exposed, helpless and vulnerable, betrayed and hurt. He glanced briefly at the audience, and he froze. They weren't laughing. They weren't screaming. They were completely silent, staring at him. And he couldn't move.

The audience had started to whisper. They were growing restless, waiting for his next movement, his next line. He looked away and found Christine's eyes. She was staring at him, too, but not in judgment or anticipation. Her eyes shone with admiration and pride.

Immediately, he fell back into the role, cutting loose the line to the supposed chandelier and sweeping her off her feet to a place below the stage while the crew prepared the set for the dungeon scene. They ran up the stairs from their place beneath the stage, coming out on top just as the curtain began to rise. He flew through the lyrics with perfect pitch and timing. He threw himself into the role with full force. He wasn't thinking now. He was just doing. Doing whatever his mind told him to do, whatever the scene required. He acted on instinct. He couldn't allow himself to feel too much during this scene because if he did, he'd surely lose all control. _It's almost over, _he thought. _It's almost over._ He knew in his mind that it was just an act, but the passion and pain he felt were still very real. It was too recent; the wounds were too fresh. He was reliving it all – the hatred, the love, the joy, the heartbreak. The emotions were overwhelming and stage lighting was too hot and the crowd was too large and just when he thought he couldn't take it anymore, he felt Christine's lips on his and the world stopped turning.

There were gasps from the crowd. Some were whispering. Some looked scandalized. But Erik saw none of it. He kissed her with more passion and love than he had ever kissed her before and he could feel her heartbeat against his chest and he could taste their mingling tears on her lips…and then it was over. When they broke apart, the tears he shed were genuine; the heartbreak he felt was real. It hurt to watch her go, and it _killed_ him when she returned the ring. He wanted to run after her. He wanted to stop her. He wanted to take her in his arms and spin her around and kiss her until he ran out of breath. But that wasn't how it had ended. He forced himself to remain behind, watching as she reenacted the most painful moment of his life – the moment he thought he would never see her again. It was all he could do to keep from completely breaking down as he heard her voice – that sweet, angelic voice he loved so dearly – singing words of love to another, echoing off the walls of the opera house, mocking him for ever believing that such a beautiful woman could love such an imperfect monster of a man. He was alone on stage now. Utterly and completely alone. Just as he had been on the night of the fire. Gripping the candle stand until his knuckles were white, he slammed the metal into the mirror. There was a brief stinging sensation as a shower of tiny glass shards bit into his skin. He didn't care. He just kept smashing until at last he broke through the final mirror and walked off the stage into Christine's open arms, wrapping her into a fierce embrace.

The music ended. The curtain fell. And the crowd erupted into applause.

Christine looked up into his eyes, those soft green eyes so full of love, and beamed. "Do you hear that, Erik? That is all for _you_." She raised a hand to stroke his wet cheek. "They are cheering for _you_."

Monsieur Leroux pushed his way through the crowd that had gathered outside the dressing rooms. Spotting Erik and Christine headed into one of the doorways on the far right, he shouted to them, waving to get their attention. "Erik, m'boy! Miss Daaé!" He brushed past the guards, who recognized him as the author, and made his way to them. He clapped Erik on the shoulder. "Erik, my lad, that was sheer genius! Amazing! Makes _my_ work look like utter rubbish!"

"Monsieur Leroux, I wouldn't be here if weren't for your so-called 'rubbish.' Thank you."

"Oh, nonsense, boy! Nonsense! You have more talent than all of Paris put together!" He turned to Christine. "And you, Miss Daaé, are certainly gifted as well. You truly sang like an angel tonight."

Christine blushed. "Thank you."

The journalist tipped his hat, smiling widely. "Congratulations to the both of you."

Christine shook her head. "I'm still amazed at how many people came out. I heard someone say they had to start turning people away because all of the seats were filled!"

Leroux knit his brows. "Oh, well, yes! Congratulations on that, as well." He laughed when he saw their confused faces. "Erik, m'boy, I know a good act when I see one, but you'd have to be a mighty good actor, indeed, to kiss someone like that!"

Erik flushed.

Leroux simply laughed again. "Well, best of luck to you – though, I'm sure you won't need it. You two were made for each other." He tipped his hat again and turned to leave. "Keep in touch!"

Christine was just about to close the door behind him when she saw that another familiar face had made it through the crowd. Raoul stood quietly in front of the door, his gaze flicking between Erik and Christine. "May I come in?"

Christine looked hesitantly to Erik, who gave a curt nod. They stepped back, allowing the vicomte to enter before closing the door.

Raoul stood with his back to them. He was silent a moment before speaking. "The opera was quite a success tonight. Well done." He paused. When no one spoke, he continued. "However, I know that it did not end as you would have liked…which is why I've come to say goodbye." He turned to face them and took Christine gently by the shoulders, looking into her eyes for what he knew might be the last time.

_Think of me, think of me fondly _

_When we've said goodbye_

_Remember me, once in awhile_

_Please promise me you'll try_

_Flowers fade, the fruits of summer fade_

_They have their seasons, so do we_

_But please promise me that sometimes_

_You will think of me_

He leaned forward and placed a soft, chaste kiss on her forehead. "Don't forget about me, Christine." He looked to Erik not with the bitterness of an enemy but the respect for a man who has won. "Take care of her."

"I will."

[1] Obviously, this is a reference to Gerard Butler who played the Phantom in the 2004 film. Gérard (also spelled Girard) actually is a French surname. It literally means "strong spear" or "strong spear warrior."


	10. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

_Le Gaulois, April 15, 1871_

_Erik is dead._ [1]

It was a simple epitaph for such an extraordinary man. Leroux had known he deserved better, but what should he have said? How could he capture the essence of such a man on paper? How could he confine the soul of music to mere words? It was like trying to contain sunlight in a bottle or the wind in a box. The article was a year old now, but he simply couldn't throw it away. It was a tribute to a man who he had come to think of as one of his dearest friends. He set the newspaper clipping down on the table and stared out the window at the clouds in the sky, wondering what Erik was up to in his new life.

A man stands in the doorway of a small cottage in the French countryside, his face obscured by the shadows cast in the late afternoon sunlight. There are vines growing up the side of the house, blanketing the white brick chimney in a rich emerald green. To the side of the house there is a grand old oak, looking like a stately sentry standing guard over the house. There is a slight breeze blowing, tossing the leaves to and fro, their shadows dappling the grass below in ever-changing patterns of darkness and light. In the meadow in front of the house, the grass is tall and dotted with wildflowers, their brightly colored heads bobbing in the wind. A woman is there dressed in white, dancing barefoot in the fields, her dark curls radiant in the sun, her thin cotton dress undulating in the breeze. A band of pure gold encircles the fourth finger of her left hand, glinting in the sunlight as she gathers the tender blossoms – bluebells and buttercups and dasies. She runs with her hands full of flowers, with her hair flowing wildly. From his place among the shadows, the man smiles as she approaches, dropping the bouquet on the steps. She stands with her back to the setting sun, its golden rays surrounding her with an angelic glow. She is waiting for him with open arms, beckoning him into the light. There is a moment of hesitation, a moment of fear, but at last he steps forward and feels the sunlight on his skin, the warmth caressing his face like a mother comforting her infant child. It is not a particularly handsome face, scarred in battle and scarred from birth, but it is the face of the man that she loves and to her, it is beautiful. The man takes her in his arms and lifts her into the air, spinning her around and dipping her low, pulling her in for a kiss, their features darkened against the radiance of the sun.

The papers, you see, had gotten it a bit wrong. For though the Phantom was truly dead, Erik was very much alive.

[1] As mentioned before, Leroux's original novel was first published as a series in the French newspaper_ Le Gaulois_ from 1909-1910. In his story, the only notice of Erik's demise is a simple, one-line sentence: "Erik is dead." I chose to use April 15th as a tribute to the author because Leroux himself died on April 15, 1927.


End file.
